


When It All Goes to Hell

by ohnoscarlett



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-01 06:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnoscarlett/pseuds/ohnoscarlett
Summary: It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end.  (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.)  Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the mods of [](http://bandombigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[bandombigbang](http://bandombigbang.livejournal.com/). As always, this was a lot of fun. Thanks also to my fabulous and long-suffering beta, [](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/profile)[cloudlessclimes](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/). Couldn't have done it without you, bb.

**TITLE:** When It All Goes to Hell  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://ohnoscarlett.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohnoscarlett**](http://ohnoscarlett.livejournal.com/)  
 **BANDS:** Panic, MCR, FOB  
 **PAIRING:** Brendon/Spencer  
 **WORD COUNT:** 26k  
 **RATING:** NC-17  
 **WARNINGS:** sex, violence  
 **SUMMARY:** It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end. (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.) Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...  
 **NOTES:** Many thanks to the mods of [](http://bandombigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[**bandombigbang**](http://bandombigbang.livejournal.com/). As always, this was a lot of fun. Thanks also to my fabulous and long-suffering beta, [](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/profile)[**cloudlessclimes**](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/). Couldn't have done it without you, bb.

  
Spencer swung his arm, sending the machete cleanly through the neck of the guy in front of him and lopping of his head. He didn’t even wait for the body to hit the floor before he turned away and made sure the rest of the room was clear.

Spencer liked to carry a machete, a sawed-off shotgun, and a flamethrower. It was good to have a variety of reliable weapons, not to mention a backup for your backup. He tended to rely pretty heavily on the machete, even though close-contact wasn’t ideal. Close-contact with zombies seemed to be just the way it goes.

At least, that was generally what went through his head when he was knee-deep in it.

There had been seven zombies in this particular neighborhood. Spencer found them easily enough and hadn’t even had to break out his expendables. His fee would go a long way covering gas and food if he didn’t have bullets and propane to replace.

The guy in charge--the mayor, an alderman, a councilor, somebody with money, whoever--met him in the street once it was safe to be outside again. This place hadn’t been that bad, and frankly, Spencer wondered what was wrong with these people if they couldn’t pick off a couple zombies themselves.

It was hard to believe that this was his life. Spencer hunted zombies for a living. Ha ha. For money. He was good at it, and there was a need, so it was a natural progression.

The guy met Spencer out in the street when he was done. He had to stand there for a while, waiting until people decided it was ok. Sometimes it took some time, especially when there weren’t gunshots or a fire to extinguish. But the guy came out soon enough and handed Spencer an envelope thick with cash. Spencer just nodded and turned away silently, the envelope clutched tightly in one hand, machete in the other.

He had to find a place to stay for the night.

***

So Spencer was a zombie hunter. He was employed by survivors to hunt and kill zombies wherever they popped up--and they did, with an alarming frequency. Spencer didn’t have a phone, or email, yet people seemed to be able to find him. People still talked, even if a lot of the modern amenities had gone to shit with no one to manage them.

Spencer walked down the middle of the street with his head up and his machete held loosely at his side. He always made sure to look clearly whole and healthy so nobody with a nervous trigger finger would be tempted to take him out. Zombies shambled, so Spencer walked with a purpose.

He stopped at the end of the block and looked down the cross streets. He had come without a plan and left the same way. Plans had a tendency to fall through, so Spencer often just went where the wind--and outbreaks--took him. Los Angeles kept him busy.

The twitching of curtains caught his eye, and as Spencer turned he saw a hand and a flash of blonde hair. He stood still for a moment, square in the center of the intersection, but unafraid of traffic. There were few functioning vehicles these days, even though Spencer had one himself that he struggled daily to maintain. He slept in it more than he drove it. Still, Spencer waited. This was usually the time he got an offer.

Sure enough, a minute later, the front door of the house on the corner cracked open and a girl beckoned to him. Spencer had grace enough not to shrug his shoulders, and to drop his eyes to at least pretend modesty. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t know what was probably going to happen.

He didn’t sleep with _all_ of them.

***

Spencer appreciated it, he did. He got to sleep in a bed in a semi-secure location, he got a real shower--sometimes even with hot water. He usually even got a meal or two--also sometimes hot. That he often had fervent, we-didn’t-get-eaten-alive-today sex with the older daughters or generally younger women--even a young man or two-- of the communities he serviced... well. He didn’t dwell on it. In the end they didn’t want to keep him and he didn’t want to stay. It all worked out one way or another.

***

Spencer couldn’t decide if he was very slowly working his way east, back to Las Vegas, or trying to avoid doing the same. He hadn’t been back to see his family since before the outbreaks began. His father had been ill for some time, so Spencer had been making the trip with some regularity until finally his father worsened and died. That had been the last time he had seen his mother and his sisters, back at the funeral. He hadn’t heard from them in the months following. Spencer hoped that it was due to the loss of phone and internet connections. His mother was a sensible woman, with resources, and his sisters were strong and smart. He hoped they were holed up somewhere safe. But he had vivid nightmares of the alternative.

***

Spencer woke in the gray light of early morning. He was a light sleeper, he had to be so nothing surprised him in the middle of the night. He couldn’t figure out what woke him until he remembered the girl. She lay curled up next to him, the sheets twisted in her fists. She was having a nightmare. Spencer sighed and petted her hair and stroked her cheek gently til she woke with a start. When she whispered his name it sent a shiver down his spine, like someone walked over his grave, as his grandma would say.

“I have to go,” he said softly.

“I know.”

***

Spencer’s truck was exactly where he left it, about a mile from the last outbreak. He didn’t know why he just didn’t drive right in, but when he walks the last bit he can get a better feeling about the place, and it’s kind of a warm-up, like a pre-game stretch. It’s a risk no matter what he does.

He drives a Land Rover, which, he had to admit, was something of a throwback to his former life. It had four wheel drive, and plenty of room for his stuff in the back, but it was kind of ostentatious. He couldn’t bring himself to trade it; was a good truck, after all.

Spencer did a quick sweep of the area as he approached his vehicle. There wasn’t any chatter about more zombie activity, but it was better to be safe than sorry. When he got near enough, he crouched down to peer under the chassis. Once it was all clear, Spencer heaved open the tailgate to load up his gear.

The flamethrower went in first. It was his largest piece of ambulatory equipment and took up a good deal of the load space. He didn’t have to use it this time around, so it was good with just a quick once-over and a double-check on the propane levels. Spencer took a moment to consider the straps, rubbing one between his fingers and frowning. He was developing a tender spot on his shoulder where the join of one strap had been scraping his skin. He’d have to work it out when he did his last push before moving.

The shotgun went in next. It was an old 12 gauge Remington he found at an army surplus store. The previous owner had taken the trouble to saw off much of the barrel, so the guy behind the counter was more than happy to get the sketchy thing out of his sight. Spencer got it for a song.

Like the flamethrower, Spencer hadn't needed to use his shotgun to clear up that last patch of zombies. The gun needed to be dismantled and cleaned anyway, but he could do it when he was in for the night. He was getting low on rounds too.

One more brief glance around and Spencer shut the tailgate before walking around to the drivers side. He set the machete in the passenger seat, an easy grab if he needed it. It wasn't his best choice while driving, but Spencer figured that one day he'd bring up the shotgun instead. For now though, the machete was his favorite and he rarely put it down.

Spencer maneuvered his truck carefully through the empty streets. The place he had been staying in on this side of the city wasn't far. He had given up his house fairly quickly after the first outbreaks. It had been a nice house, but it was impossible to keep secure; too many windows. These days he preferred smaller and darker, if he could get it. Ideally, he tried to stay in an upstairs apartment with a separate entrance. It was even better if he could disguise or barricade or pull up the stairs. He really liked when he could pull up the stairs.

Nothing was moving when Spencer pulled into the driveway, but he sat still after cutting the ignition anyway. He tried to move quietly--which really explained much of his reluctance to drive the truck most of the time; it was rather loud in what had become the silence of the modern world. Noise attracted zombies. When still nothing stirred, Spencer got out and fetched his things to take inside.

His place of late was a second floor back apartment whose steps were hidden behind a stucco wall. Spencer held a weapon in each hand as he walked around the building. The entire block had been empty since before Spencer had arrived, but he had managed to stay alive this long by being careful and he had no intention of stopping now.

Spencer made it inside and bolted the door behind him before setting down his things. He had never been surprised by a zombie once he had made it inside of wherever he was staying, but Spencer pulled a pistol from his pack and inspected the apartment just the same. Once he was satisfied, he sat at the kitchen table to take stock.

At some point in the preceding 24 hours he had decided to go. He needed to know about his family. He needed to know if his mother and sisters were ok. LA could do without him.

Spencer had a twelve point list for emergencies. In pre-zombie Los Angeles it had been contained in a duffle bag in the back of the closet in case of earthquakes. It quickly morphed into a set of rubbermaid bins that he scavenged to keep full.

First on the list was water. He had one of those big old picnic drink coolers with the spigot at the bottom, but it leaked incessantly and he was always on the lookout for a replacement. Spencer had a whole bin full of plastic water bottles which he kept in reserve for when he didn't have access to water he could boil. The water in a lot of places was still running, if cold and of dubious quality. Spencer fired up his propane camp stove and set a pot to boil. He wanted as much water as he could stow if he was going into the desert.

The second item on his list was, of course, food. A quick search when he first moved in to the apartment had revealed relatively well stocked cupboards. Many places were left as if their inhabitants had simply evaporated into thin air. Spencer tried not to think about it too hard. The outbreaks had swept through with incredible speed, leaving most people flat out dead. Most of those who survived whatever it was didn't really last much longer. It took mere days for the first zombies to emerge, and they finished off the majority of the people who were left. And zombies didn't need canned goods.

Since Spencer was moving on, he methodically searched the cabinets and pulled down everything edible. It was mostly cans, and various boxes that looked promising. His food bin was nearly full, but he figured he could run down and check out the house proper later, see if they had anything good. He was craving Oreos in the worst way.

Spencer was lucky enough to have been perfectly healthy, down to even lacking seasonal allergies, but you never knew what could happen. He searched bathroom cabinets just as he did the ones in kitchens, and even bedside tables. People put stuff all over the place. Spencer merely collected what he found and placed it all in a plastic tool box. Somebody might need it someday, even if it was just aspirin.

The first aid kit was a completely separate entity that he kept tucked down in the well on the front passenger seat. It was crammed full of bandages and rubbing alcohol and gauze and neosporin. He kept it close, even though he knew that if he ever had a real need of it he was pretty much screwed.

The old duffle bag, formerly Spencer’s emergency kit, now served to hold smaller miscellaneous items; essentially the remains of the kit. There he kept a utility knife, duct tape, a battery-powered radio and some extra batteries. In reality, he rarely used it, but he had it if the need arose.

Spencer had another bin that held cleaning supplies, more or less. There was a bottle of bleach, laundry soap, and his personal kit: bath soap, deodorant, toothpaste, all that. He kept a couple spare changes of clothes, and lots of socks and underwear. There was another one for colder weather gear, with a warm coat, hat, gloves, and a good pair of boots. Spencer hated the cold, but he felt the need to be prepared.

He hadn’t been much of a camper, back in the day, but Spencer still had a fairly decent sleeping bag and one of those little blue foam mats to add one more layer between himself and the ground. When he was in an apartment that really wasn’t an issue; he just slept in a bed. But the sleeping bag was there if he needed it, and he often did, sleeping in the truck.

The last things Spencer checked before he considered himself ready to move were his weapons. He cleaned and sharpened the machete, then dismantled and cleaned the shotgun. More shells would not be out of order, nor would more propane, both for the camp stove and for the flamethrower. He hadn’t even pulled the flamethrower out of the truck when he got back, but he could slap on a piece of duct tape to the rough patch on the strap and consider it good.

He needed to go to the store.

***

Spencer found a guy determined to stick it out and keep on doing what he was doing--in this case, running an army surplus store--shortly after the outbreaks started. It came in incredibly handy. Spencer would drive across the city to stock up on things if he had to, and he often did. There were a few like Ian, stubbornly convinced that in time, the zombies would be eliminated--or at least under some sort of control--and life would return to what it once had been. Spencer wasn’t operating under that assumption, but he wasn’t going to burst anyone’s bubble. They could figure it out for themselves.

With his truck packed up and the apartment cleared, Spencer felt just about ready to head out to Vegas. If anyone had propane and 12-gauge shells, Ian would. And Ian usually had a good ear for what was going on in the street.

He drove slowly through the city. It was pretty quiet, even at midday. Ian’s store was in Old Hollywood; emphasis on the _old_. It was a dump, even more so than it used to be. Most people stayed inside, so odds were that if he saw anyone, it was probably a zombie. The closest movement Spencer saw was still blocks away, so he couldn’t tell who it was, nor was he in the mood to investigate.

There was a plain sign up on the door to the store to indicate that it was indeed still open, but no neon or anything flashy. It always made Spencer chuckle, thinking of “Clerks”, a movie he had seen several times. He figured Ian probably had too. It wasn’t a sheet and shoe polish, but it had it’s charm.

_I assure you we are open._

Ian’s sign also had the date. It was a subtle signal that things were a little different. So many places did still have their “open for business” signs up, but simply because they were never taken down. You kind of had to know the army surplus store was still operating, to want to look for it, but Ian did his best not to attract unwanted visitors, zombies and scavengers alike.

Spencer parked at the end of the block and walked the rest of the way. He only carried his shotgun and the machete, hung from a sheath on his belt, which bumped against his thigh with every step. It was quiet, but Spencer felt off.

There was a doorbell newly mounted at the entrance to the store, with tiny lettering instructing patrons to “please announce your presence”. Ian hadn’t wanted to accidentally shoot someone just trying to do some shopping. Zombies didn’t read, and they didn’t tend to politely let you know they were coming in. Spencer pressed the button and waited; presumably it could be heard inside. He hoped it was heard inside.

He didn’t have to wait long. Spencer had the chance to glance around and be sure nothing was about when the door opened and Ian smilingly beckoned him inside. Ian was a young man about Spencer’s age, with a messy head of curls and thick glasses. Spencer had liked him immediately.

“Spencer!” he cheered. “What are you in for?”

“Usual,” Spencer replied, even as Ian turned away, disappearing into the warren of shelves and boxes. He returned bearing a carton of propane canisters with an entire case of shotgun shells balanced on top.

“Have you tried salt rounds?” Ian asked as he thumped his load on the counter.

“Salt?” Spencer wondered.

“Yeah!” Ian assured him with a wide grin. “I’ve been doing some research--”

“Zombie movies?”

“Yeah. Apparently, feeding zombies salt will return them to the grave.”

“Huh. So, like, feeding zombies. Put out a salt lick?” Spencer suggested doubtfully. Ian laughed.

“Not literally! I don’t think... But like, shoot them with it? It’s got to be easier to reload with something like rock salt than it is with buck shot. Do you know how to reload?” Spencer shook his head and Ian was off again into the back of the store without further comment.

Spencer just shook his head as he watched Ian go. The store had a little generator, and sporadic electricity. Ian liked movies—clearly—and watched something as often as he could. Spencer figured it was his coping mechanism, his way to stay sane. But then Spencer also figured that Ian thought he was Han Solo. He was resourceful, at least.

Spencer was a fast learner. Ian had all the components and the tools and showed Spencer how he could just get empty shells and fill them with pretty much anything he wanted. It could turn out to be a useful skill, particularly because bags of rock salt could be found in almost any store, and if he still had to buy them, for significantly cheaper than regular rounds.

“I kind of don’t want to have to experiment,” Spencer admitted hesitantly, rolling a fresh shell between his fingers.

“Well,” Ian began, and his tone made Spencer peer at him suspiciously.

“What?”

“You might be able to try it out around here,” he admitted.

“Seriously? What do you know?”

“I think we might have a couple in the neighborhood,” Ian said flatly.

“Have you seen them?” Spencer asked, voice tight. Ian shrugged.

“Not up close, but near enough to tell. They’ve got the walk.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Spencer said with a sigh. “Let’s clean up your neighborhood. Can’t let it all go downhill. Come on.”

“I--”

“What is it?” Spencer asked.

“I can’t see for shit,” Ian muttered, looking at the floor.

“But your glasses--”

“Broke. These ones are old,” he gestured toward his face. “I can see enough to get around and stuff, but if I need to read... And I’m a terrible shot anyway.”

“Jesus, Ian.”

"Yeah," Ian replied sheepishly. "Can you--"

"Yeah," Spencer said, low, starting to steel himself for the encounter.

"I can afford you, you know."

"Don't worry about it, Ian," Spencer returned. "We can test your theory."

Ian just grinned as Spencer loaded the shotgun.

***

Spencer moved slowly down the street in the direction Ian said he had last seen zombies. It was no guarantee that he would find anything, but it was as good a direction as any. It was back the way he had come, and Spencer wondered if it had been zombies that he had seen out of the corner of his eye on the way over.

Movement got his attention further down the block. Three zombies were shambling around the corner and definitely homing in on him. Spencer took a deep breath and flicked the Remington off safe.

Spencer was a pretty good shot--he had to be to survive, doing what he did day after day. His first shot hit a zombie in the shoulder, causing it to fall backwards and trip up the second. Spencer aimed and shot at the third zombie, hitting it square in the chest and again lifting it off its feet. Spencer's third shot took off most of the tripper's head as it got to its feet.

There were still two rounds left but Spencer took a moment to reload while he waited to see if the zombies were really dead. Both of his coat pockets were full of the salt rounds that he and Ian had made in the store. Spencer quickly slipped a few into the breach as he moved a little closer to the twisted pile of rotting flesh on the pavement.

He was fairly sure the one without most of its head was dead. Taking care of the brain did the job no matter what method was used. Spencer was kind of surprised that salt did so much damage, but as he got closer and could see better, he could see similar results with the one he got in the chest. It wasn't generally a killing blow for a zombie--you usually had to destroy the brain--but this shot would have killed a regular person, and the zombie seemed down for the count. Normally, shooting a zombie in the chest wouldn’t even slow it down. Salt seemed to do what buckshot couldn't.

Spencer's first shot hadn't quite done the job. The zombie lay twitching on the ground, writhing like anyone would who had gotten shot in the shoulder. Spencer was pretty close; enough that shooting the zombie again seemed like a waste of ammunition. Instead, he unsnapped the sheath and withdrew his machete. The zombie was on its feet again once Spencer was in reach, but a quick slash finished it off, in a particularly messy fashion.

Spencer walked back to Ian's store just as carefully as if he hadn't just killed what were presumably the only zombies in the area. On one hand he was pretty excited about proving Ian correct about the effect of salt rounds on zombie flesh, but on the other he was kind of annoyed. Salt seemed to accelerate decomposition, so what Ian had said about "returning zombies to the grave" was fairly accurate.

Even as he turned away the three zombies were little more than piles of mush in the street. It still had to be a kill shot, as evidenced by zombie number one, but salt did way more damage. Even if it made for extra gross machete work later. Spencer's duster was coated in a viscous layer of zombie guts all down one arm and the front on that side.

Ian was lurking behind the door when Spencer got back. Spencer was reaching out to press the bell when the door just opened. Ian made an awkward, aborted movement that looked like it was meant to be a hug but speedily turned into an enthusiastic high five. Spencer just laughed at him.

"You're disgusting," Ian said, taking in Spencer's gore-spattered duster.

"Thanks, man," Spencer replied dryly.

"No, I mean--" Ian gestured vigorously at Spencer's coat and made a face.

"I need to wash, like, before this dries. It's a bitch to get off," Spencer said.

"Yeah, yeah, it's--" Ian sneezed violently, scrubbing at his eyes behind the thick lenses. Spencer blessed him. "Thank you, ugh. Allergies. Dude traded for a case of water purification tablets--"

"When he could boil-?"

"Totally. So he traded me a goat."

At his words, a tiny black and white goat trotted down the aisle straight toward Spencer. It was no taller than his knee, and it had little tufts of fur sticking up around what must have been button-sized horns. It looked ridiculous. The goat paused briefly to look up at Spencer, little head cocked to the side as if considering him, then continued on to Ian and promptly butted him in the knee.

" _Ow!_ " Ian cried, rubbing his knee and scowling as Spencer gasped with laughter. "See how you like it; it's yours."

"Ian, I'm--"

"Nope," said Ian with a shake of his head, curls flying. "Take it. Just adds insult to injury. I'm allergic, right? And the damn thing hates me." Then he added under his breath, _friendly, my ass._ Spencer almost choked.

"What am _I_ supposed to do with it?" Spencer crouched down to get a closer look at the animal and it gave up harassing Ian to skip over and nuzzle his hand.

"I don't know," Ian replied. "Milk it?"

Spencer looked closer.

"Not unless you know something I don't," Spencer said, scratching the goat's head. "This guy is male. I'm pretty sure if I squeeze _that_ it's not going to be milk coming out."

"Um, whoops?" Ian laughed.

"Yeah, yeah," Spencer grumbled, giving the goat one last skritch before standing and brushing his hands together. "Bathroom?"

"Around back," Ian pointed.

"That's safe."

"I use what I've got," Ian said with a shrug.

Ian led Spencer out to the back entrance of the store. He wondered why there wasn't a bathroom actually _inside_ the building, but he let it go, figuring he should just be grateful there was one at all. Ian poked his head out the door and looked around, then opened it wider for Spencer to pass through. He could see the bathroom door when he stepped outside. It was stupid, and Spencer found himself shaking his head across the open space.

It was as distracted as he ever got, in a relatively safe place, five feet between the doors. That was when people got hurt. Spencer tugged open the bathroom door and something moved. The machete was in his hand in a flash, the light coming through tiny, high set windows just enough to make out a shape huddled in the corner.

"Shit," Spencer muttered to himself, and then fell to the floor as the goat butted him from behind and took him out at the knees.

There was a flurry of movement in the corner and Spencer prepared to die. The zombie got to it's knees just as Spencer did, and then did something... Inexplicable. It held out its hands and cooed: at the goat.

Spencer stood, shaken, as the goat trotted over to the zombie. Or something. Spencer had never seen anything like it. The zombie--the guy? Didn't exactly look right. He was pale, even in the dim light, but not quite as deathly gray as a zombie, let alone that he clearly wasn't rotting. But it was the sound that he made. Zombies didn't vocalize.

“Fucking goat,” Spencer muttered. Then he looked at the guy. “Are you ok?”

“Mrmfh.” Spencer raised the machete, getting his attention. “Uh, more or less?” the guy croaked. “I’ve been better.”

“Have you been bitten?” Spencer asked cautiously.

“No,” the guy answered quickly. “But. I’m... sick. I don’t know--”

The tension leeched from Spencer’s shoulders a tiny bit.

“Ok,” Spencer said, daring to step a little closer. “Sick we can deal with.”

“I don’t know,” he said again.

“Well, we’ll see.”

Spencer closed the distance to the sink and finally managed to sponge off the greater majority of the gore coating his front. His coat would survive another day. He glanced down at the goat, still being cuddled and petted by the Not-Zombie half curled up on the floor. He wasn’t too sure about the goat’s prospects. It looked like dinner.

Spencer scrubbed his hands, splashed water on his face, and took a deep breath before he turned around to assess the situation. The guy was cuddled up in the corner murmuring wordlessly to the goat. Spencer just leaned against the sink looking at them for a minute. He couldn't have been lying about not being bitten. The reaction was fairly quick, and he definitely would be stumbling after Spencer's brain by now. But he did look sick, so Spencer said the only thing he could come up with.

"You need to come inside with me. We'll check you out. Can you walk?"

The guy nodded, so Spencer extended a hand and helped him to his feet. The guy groaned when he got upright, and for one terrified moment Spencer thought he had been wrong and this guy was going to rip into him. But he didn't. He just stood there breathing hard and looking like he was trying not to vomit.

"Don't puke on my shoes," Spencer said, a little harsher than he intended. The guy's eyes flicked at him, a quick up and down.

"I'd be more worried about your coat." The guy's voice was like broken glass, but the hint of a smirk left Spencer wondering.

"Come on."

Spencer dragged the guy out of the bathroom, barely sparing a glance to make sure no more zombies were around. The goat threatened to trip him up again, prancing around their feet and generally making a nuisance of himself. Ian had shut the door to the shop behind him, so after three steps, Spencer pounded on the closed door and shouted.

The door popped open immediately and Ian ushered them in with wide eyes. He dragged a chair seemingly out of nowhere, and the guy fell into it, exhausted after thirty seconds on his feet.

"What is this?" Ian asked, voice pitched low.

"He was hiding in the bathroom," Spencer replied.

"Is he..."

"I don't think so, but--" Spencer began.

"I haven't been bitten," the guy interrupted hastily. "I told him so," he added, pointing at Spencer.

"How about we look, ok? Uh..."

"Brendon."

"Brendon, ok. This is Ian; it's his store. I'm Spencer. Come on, let's get your jacket off."

"I've never had somebody so urgent to get me out of my clothes," Brendon joked. Ian snickered, but Spencer just looked at him blankly.

"Uh huh. Can you lift up your shirt?" Spencer asked, peering at Brendon's unbroken, if grimy, skin.

"You want me to take my pants off too?"

Spencer actually looked down at Brendon's pants and then bodily hauled him out of the chair to look at the backs of his legs. Both Ian and Brendon were fighting a losing battle with the giggles, though Spencer failed to see what was so funny, and told them so.

"It's just--you're just so--so serious about it," Ian replied mirthfully.

"It'll be way less funny when he's gnawing your arm off later, if we miss something," Spencer pointed out.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I have not been bitten!" Brendon snapped.

"Okay. I can see that." Spencer huffed out a breath that sent the hair in his face in every direction instead of just in his eyes. He continued much more gently. "Can you tell me what's wrong then?"

Brendon nodded, then launched into his tale.

"I started feeling sick right around when all... this started happening," Brendon said. Ian and Spencer nodded. A lot of people had gotten sick. Unfortunately, most of them either ended up dead or zombified, which was as good as dead.

"This whole time?" Ian wondered.

"Yep. And it's getting worse." At Spencer's totally unsubtle jolt of alarm, Brendon continued. "Not very fast. I've been feeling like shit for ages now, but it's different than when it first started."

"Like, how?"

"At first it was just my voice. I used to sing, but then it was like I was going through puberty again. My voice started cracking, and I got all hoarse. But then I noticed I was feeling really weak, like my muscles weren’t working right, no matter how much time I spent at the gym, and I started losing weight.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Like, I’ve always been kind of a skinny little guy, right? Well, I can eat and eat and eat and I still lose.”

“Is there anything else?” Spencer prompted.

“Little things,” he said, waving it away with his hand. “The biggest thing is the weakness. I’m stiff and clumsy now. Clumsier than usual, anyway.”

“Your walk...” Ian suggested.

“Yeah. Rather zombie-like, right?”

“Yeah,” Spencer and Ian agreed. “Weird,” Ian added. Spencer elbowed him.

“What have you been doing all this time?” Spencer asked, eying Ian.

“Hiding out,” Brendon replied. “And when I had to go out, blending in.”

“What do you mean, ‘blending in’?” Spencer wondered.

“Where I lived, over in Santa Monica, was hit pretty hard.” Spencer and Ian both made noises of agreement. “ _Lots_ of zombies. I stayed at my place for a while, but eventually I had to go out, when I ran out of stuff, you know? And when I did, I couldn’t get back. It was just... overwhelmed. I was already sick, and not too quick on my feet. The zombies weren’t interested in me. They’re pretty easily distracted,” Brendon snorted, and Spencer looked at him funny. “Like, I get that, right? ADHD all the way, but I figured out pretty quick that if I just held out for a minute, they would forget about me. Then I could fake it and get away.”

“Fake it?” Ian asked.

Brendon demonstrated from his chair. The vacant expression, head hanging at a weird angle, arms dangling at his sides. It was a pretty good impression.

“You can... fake it,” Spencer clarified.

“Yep. They totally fall for it. I made it all the way over here on foot.”

The three of them just sat there for a minute in silence.

“Holy shit,” Ian finally said.

“Yeah,” Spencer and Brendon agreed.

“Where are you trying to go?” Ian asked hesitantly.

“At first I was just trying to get somewhere safer,” Brendon said.

“There really isn’t anyplace safe, at least not in LA,” Ian replied sadly.

“Better than Santa Monica,” Brendon added with a grin. “Then I decided I’d try to go home.”

“Where’s home?” Spencer asked.

“Vegas.”

The quickly drawn breath drew their attention to Spencer. Brendon just looked at him curiously, but Ian knew Spencer well enough to know what Vegas meant to him. And he knew about Spencer’s plans.

“This is perfect,” Ian said, nudging Spencer in the arm.

“What?” Brendon wondered, looking from Spencer to Ian and back again.

“Um,” Spencer began lamely. He needed to think, preferably alone, for a minute. “I’m from Vegas.”

“Oh yeah? No way!” Brendon raised his hand for a weak high five. Spencer lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but humored him anyway.

“ _Spencer_ ,” Ian prodded. Spencer shot him a look.

“I’m going. To Vegas,” he said at last. Brendon’s face lit up, and something in Spencer relaxed. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Do I ever!” Brendon laughed. Spencer scowled, and Ian poked at him.

“Lighten up, man.”

“He’s going to eat me alive,” Spencer muttered. Brendon heard, of course, and howled, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Spencer just shook his head. Between the goat and Brendon, he was fucked.

***

Ian helped them go through the truck, reorganizing and repacking one more time before they left. Spencer dared to bring the truck closer in, pulling it around back in the alley that bisected the block. Spencer had been mostly ready to go anyway, so it didn’t take long to add Brendon--and the goddamn goat--to the mix.

It actually took longer to get Brendon cleaned up. He was pretty filthy having been pretending to be a zombie. He cleaned up nice. Spencer found himself surreptitiously checking him out. It made him roll his eyes at his own behavior, because seriously. He had thought the guy was a zombie only hours before. He had to have _some_ standards. Rules. Guidelines.

Ian presented Brendon with an aluminum baseball bat just before they went to get in the truck. Brendon took it like it was something precious, which, all things considered, it kind of was. Spencer was really just happy that Ian didn’t go and give him something stupid, like a gun. Spencer would gratefully take another gun to keep as backup, but he sure as hell wouldn’t give one to Brendon, who looked like he could barely hold his own arms up, let alone heft a gun long enough to point, aim, and shoot.

“You’re a team now,” Ian said.

“I guess so,” Brendon returned.

“Watch his back.”

“I’ll do my best,” Brendon said, and Spencer got the crawly feeling the back of his neck that someone was watching him as he went through things one last time.

“He’s my friend,” Ian said seriously.

“I can tell.”

“Now he’s yours.”

“No,” Brendon replied. “But he will be.”

“I hope so,” Ian said, opening the door to the rover and boosting up the goat to sit in Brendon’s lap.

“I’d lay money on it,” Brendon said confidently, settling in.

“Does he have a name?” Ian wondered, suddenly switching topics and gesturing at the goat.

“You didn’t give him one?” Spencer asked, leaning across the middle to peer at Ian through the passenger side window. Ian shook his head.

“Buttercup,” Brendon suggested.

“ _Buttercup?_ For a billy goat,” Spencer said slowly.

“Why not? Are we gender stereotyping? We can name him whatever,” Brendon shot back.

“Like ‘Dinner’,” Spencer mumbled. Brendon pressed his hands over the goat’s ears, shocked.

“Yeah, Buttercup,” Ian chimed in, snapping his fingers, but then jumping at the sharp sound and looking around hastily. “I love that movie!”

“Huh?”

“For fuck sake, Spencer, ‘The Princess Bride’? Westley, Buttercup. The Dread Pirate Roberts, the Six-fingered Man. _’Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’_ ”

“Oh yeah, ok,” Spencer said, shaking his head and smiling. Ian was ridiculous.

***

They drove east along route 10 for what seemed like forever. Before the outbreaks, it took Spencer only about four hours to get to Vegas. It took them about that long just to get out of LA.

Spencer had been avoiding the freeways as he hopped around from job to job, but he chose to try the Hollywood Freeway to leave. It wasn't quite the parking lot it was during rush hour in days past, but it was tougher than he anticipated. Spencer had to navigate around abandoned vehicles left and right. It was just as bad as the surface streets.

Spencer didn't really mind the drive. It wasn't like he had to dodge pedestrians or anything. It was slow going, but he did have company for once. Brendon napped frequently, if only for twenty or so minutes at a time. When he was awake, he talked a lot.

There had been a girlfriend and a dog along with the apartment in Santa Monica. They hadn't come home one night early in the outbreaks, before anybody really figured out that something was seriously wrong. It was part of the reason Brendon hadn't left his apartment for so long. He hadn’t gotten out of bed much either.

“I thought she had left me,” he said softly, looking out the window. “I didn’t know. We fought sometimes. I thought she didn’t come back because she’d had enough, that she—“

“Don’t,” Spencer said firmly, but gently somehow too. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“How could I have known? It’s more likely for your girlfriend to walk out on you than it end up being the zombie apocalypse.”

“True,” Spencer laughed, and Brendon brightened a little. Spencer smiled to himself and just kept driving.

[CONTINUE ON TO PART 2...](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/20022.html)


	2. When It All Goes to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end. (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.) Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...

**TITLE:** When It All Goes to Hell  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://ohnoscarlett.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohnoscarlett**](http://ohnoscarlett.livejournal.com/)  
 **BANDS:** Panic, MCR, FOB  
 **PAIRING:** Brendon/Spencer  
 **WORD COUNT:** 26k  
 **RATING:** NC-17  
 **WARNINGS:** sex, violence  
 **SUMMARY:** It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end. (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.) Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...

[PART 1](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/19783.html)

PART 2  
  
Brendon was seriously enamored of the goat, and it seemed mutual. The little animal curled up in Brendon's lap and cuddled as Brendon scratched and stroked him.

"I miss my dog," Brendon admitted at one point. He hadn’t mentioned his girlfriend after the first time. Spencer didn’t blame him.

"Me too," Spencer replied. Brendon perked up.

"You had a dog?"

"Two," he said. "Old girlfriend took them when we broke up."

"Yeah, that sucks," Brendon said sympathetically. Spencer just shrugged. She had been gone a long time.

Spencer learned about how Brendon had been a musician. He was like riding with a radio again. Brendon sang snippets of songs, changing abruptly if Spencer seemed unreceptive; singing the whole thing if it was otherwise. He apparently played a boatload of instruments. He had been a studio musician, and if Spencer was to look, he could find Brendon's name in dozens of liner notes.

"Were you ever in a band?" Spencer wondered.

"No. I wish I had. I tried. Couldn't keep a bass player interested," Brendon replied with a laugh. His eyes slipped shut and he fell silent for several minutes; long enough that Spencer thought he had fallen asleep again. "I feel mostly dead."

"Mostly dead?"

"Ugh, totally. You know, 'he's not all dead, just mostly dead'." Brendon's Billy Crystal as Miracle Max was pretty good.

"You do impressions really well. Impersonations. Impressions."

Brendon's smile spread wide. "Thanks," he said. "Tends to go over well. Crowd pleasers."

"Well, the zombies seemed convinced," Spencer put in.

"Sure," Brendon said resignedly. "Like I said: mostly dead. It wasn't that hard to pretend."

"There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead," Spencer quoted carefully. "Mostly dead is slightly alive."

Brendon looked out the window and grinned.

When they came to the route 15 interchange, the highway started to open up. Spencer still didn't dare to go too fast, but there weren't nearly as many obstacles. It was as good a time as any to think about finding some gas. The tank wasn't too low, but you couldn't count on finding a functional gas pump anywhere, particularly out in the desert.

Spencer pulled up next to a car and reached under his seat. Brendon watched interestedly.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going to try to siphon some gas out of this car," Spencer answered. Brendon's eyebrows rose sharply and stayed there when Spencer pulled his handgun out from behind his seat. "Do you know how to use this?" Brendon nodded silently. Spencer placed the gun in his hands. Brendon eased the goat off his lap and onto the floor. "Cover me."

"Right."

Spencer stepped out of the truck with a short plastic siphon in his hands. He heard Brendon climb out the other side and come around closer. It was taking a chance. You never knew if a car had been abandoned because of something that happened on the road or if they just ran out of gas. It could take a couple stops.

They were lucky. Spencer was able to nearly fill his five-gallon gas can before the siphon started sucking air. He turned to pour it into his own tank, getting a nod from Brendon. There were three more cars they could check fairly close together before they moved on

Once they finally got out of the city--seriously, Los Angeles went on forever--Spencer could pick it up a little. They were buzzing along an almost completely deserted highway and doing just fine. Spencer had hoped to have made it to Vegas by nightfall, but they weren't even close.

They were halfway. Halfway was Barstow. And of course it was when things started to go sideways on them.

Spencer began thinking about stopping for the night, trying to decide whether it would be a better idea to do it in the desert or in town. He hadn’t even opened his mouth to go over their options with Brendon when there was a loud bang and the truck started handling funny.

"What was that?" Brendon squawked. "A gunshot?"

"No, it's the truck."

Spencer slowed the land rover to a stop and took a deep breath. He had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and a sinking feeling in his gut. There were only so many things he could do.

Spencer and Brendon both climbed out of the truck carefully. The engine wasn't smoking or knocking, and that right there lifted a huge weight off Spencer's mind. They circled the vehicle slowly, Spencer moving forward, and Brendon going around the back. Brendon's hiss was loud and clear in the night air.

"What is it?" Spencer called as he rounded the vehicle.

"Blown tire."

"Oh thank fuck," Spencer breathed.

"What?" Brendon squinted at him in the fading light.

"A tire is no big deal," Spencer replied confidently. "A tire is something I can fix."

"Oh. Good."

"Not now you're not," came a voice from the shadows. Spencer and Brendon whirled around, Spencer drawing his gun and pushing Brendon behind him in one move.

"Who's there?" Spencer snapped.

Two figures emerged slowly, and Spencer could tell, trying to look harmless. Two guys, youngish; one with wild curly hair that immediately reminded Spencer of Ian.

"Hey," the other one said as greeting. Spencer jerked his chin at him. The guy grinned and Spencer could feel Brendon waving at him over his shoulder. "Car trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Spencer said curtly.

"Sure," the guy said. "But it's not exactly safe out here."

"You have zombies?" Spencer asked. Both guys nodded.

"Not many," Not-Ian said softly. "But they're out there."

"Would you like to come in?" the first guy suggested. "We have a place just around back. There are four of us. I'm Gerard and this is Ray."

"I don't know..." Spencer began hesitantly. Brendon jabbed him in the side and hissed in his ear.

" _Spencer!_ they could help us."

"They could also skin us alive and take all our stuff," Spencer muttered caustically.

“We wouldn’t,” Ray put in helpfully.

“We’re mostly vegetarian these days,” Gerard added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Spencer could practically feel Brendon smiling at his back. Of course.

"I have to get Buttercup!" Brendon exclaimed, turning on his heel and diving back in the truck. Both of the newcomers watched wide-eyed as he climbed back out with the little goat in his arms.

“Ah,” said Ray sagely. Gerard just smiled.

Spencer and Brendon followed Gerard and Ray around the back of the building and through a nondescript gray door that had no handle to speak of. Spencer figured that it must be part of their security. He at least had no idea how Ray had gotten it open. Zombies definitely wouldn’t even try.

Inside, it was warm and softly lit with a combination of candles and battery-powered lamps. The place seemed to have been a church, of all things. One of those modern ones that looked like any old building from the outside, without all the old stonework or a steeple.

Two more guys looked up from where they sat going through an enormous book together.

“It _was_ something,” Ray said to them as they rose.

“This is Frank,” Gerard said, gesturing to a dark little man covered in tattoos, who nodded in response. “And my brother, Michael.”

“Mikey,” he said, stepping forward with a smile to shake first Brendon’s and then Spencer’s hand. Spencer could definitely see the family resemblance.

“I’m Spencer,” he said.

“Brendon.”

“What brings you to sunny Barstow?” Gerard asked. “We haven’t seen you around before.”

“Are there many people here?” Brendon wondered.

“No,” Frank said. “We’re out a lot, looking. So we would have noticed the two of you. And a goat.”

Brendon grinned and bobbed a little in response.

“We’re headed to Vegas,” Spencer said, finally answering Gerard’s question. “Just passing through, you know?”

“Until your tire,” Ray added.

“Yeah,” Brendon replied softly.

Spencer looked at Brendon sharply.

“Are you ok?” he asked in a low voice.

“Tired,” Brendon replied. “Just tired.”

Mikey and Frank exchanged a look as well.

“How long have you been sick?” Mikey asked gently.

“I’m not--I haven’t--” Brendon stuttered.

“It’s ok; we’re not going to hurt you,” Gerard said.

“Frank was sick too,” Mikey pointed out. Frank bobbed his head in agreement.

“But--” Brendon began.

“How do you know--” Spencer started.

“Mikey’s a biochemist,” Gerard stated proudly.

“Let’s explain,” Mikey said, and they all trooped in to a little kitchen to sit around a battered table while Gerard fiddled with an ancient coffee pot. “So, if we’re right,” Mikey continued, “your body functions are slowing down.”

“I don’t know...” Brendon said, shaking his head, but Spencer cut in.

“His reflexes are weird, and it’s like his muscles don’t work. He’s really weak.”

“And kind of... goofy?” Ray suggested. Frank punched him in the arm.

“Yeah, I guess,” Spencer said as Brendon frowned at him. “I didn’t know him before.”

“That can be hard to tell if you don’t have anything to compare to,” Mikey agreed.

“May just have been weird to begin with!” Gerard added with a grin as he slouched against the counter.

“I’m right here!” Brendon protested. They all laughed. Buttercup bleated and wiggled until Brendon set him down on the floor and he promptly wandered off. Spencer hoped he didn’t get into any trouble.

“So what do you know?” Spencer asked.

“Well, there’s what we know for sure, and what we think we know,” Gerard said cryptically.

“We know that our fearless leader was a crazy motherfucker,” Frank said bluntly.

"The President of the United States; our commander in chief," Ray clarified sadly.

Frank spat on the floor, disgusted, before he continued. “And in his quest for power, he unleashed some kind of neurotoxin on his own people.”

Brendon and Spencer gasped. Television had gone dead pretty quickly, as had radio. There had been little to no news about what was happening as people had succumbed to illness.

“How do you know?” Brendon asked breathlessly.

“We have our sources,” Frank replied.

“As best we can tell, it was a bid for power, like Frank said,” Ray went on. “But rather than enslaving millions of helpless Americans in a mindless army--”

“It either killed them immediately, or turned them into zombies,” Frank cut in. “And _they_ ate pretty much everybody else.”

“That’s what I’ve seen,” Spencer agreed.

“Spencer is a zombie hunter,” Brendon said, puffing up a little, and sounding oddly similar in tone to Gerard in his description of Mikey.

“So you know,” Ray said confidently. Spencer shrugged. “We figure there must be a third option.”

“What do you mean?” Brendon wondered.

“Well, how do you explain all of us?” Mikey asked. “Why didn’t we die or turn into zombies?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Gerard said wistfully. Mikey pointed a long finger at him and squinted in a way Spencer assumed was meant to be menacing. It really wasn’t especially with everyone else stifling giggles or just outright grinning at them. He figured it was a long story.

“So why are we alive?” Ray prompted, and Mikey stopped scowling at his brother to return his attention to the story.

“We must be a third option,” he said. “In everyone else, the toxin was quick. Neurotoxins are, they work on your nervous system, after all, and that’s operating in milliseconds. In us,” Mikey gestured to his friends, “it didn’t work at all.”

“Did you--” Spencer began hesitantly. “Did you _experiment_ on yourself?”

“Not exactly. It’s not like I shot us all up with zombie juice,” Mikey said kind of stiffly. “I isolated the toxin and introduced it to some cell cultures. Nothing happened.” Brendon and Spencer kind of looked at him blankly. “If the toxin worked on us, the cells would have died. They didn’t.”

“Well... why not?” Spencer asked.

“That’s what I thought. So I kept digging. I ran an assay to do a comparison of our DNA. See what we had in common,” Mikey said. “Turns out we all shared a marker.”

“Really? You found something?” Brendon exclaimed. “You must be one badass biochemist.”

Mikey blushed as everyone else laughed at the outburst.

“What was it?” Spencer pushed him to continue.

“ALS.” Brendon and Spencer shook their heads. “Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s Disease. We’re all carriers.”

They were silent for a long moment.

“Except for me,” Frank added. “I have the active gene.”

“Wow,” Brendon said softly.

“What happened?” Spencer asked.

“Frank almost died,” Gerard replied.

“You’re getting ahead,” Mikey complained. “With the single allele, it’s recessive, so we won’t develop ALS, or turn into zombies because the toxin doesn’t work on us. But with both alleles, the gene is active. So that means that it’s possible that Frank will one day develop the disease.” Brendon sighed mournfully and Gerard patted his shoulder and pressed a cup of coffee into his hands. “It’s no guarantee,” Mikey went on. “There’s no death sentence just because the gene is there. That’s true for everything. But when he was exposed to the toxin, he reacted a little differently. Kind of like you, Brendon.”

“Oh shit.”

“Would you like me to test you?” Mikey offered.

“You can do that here?” Brendon asked.

“Sure. I have a lab in the basement.”

“How very ‘I Am Legend’ of you,” Spencer muttered.

“I prefer ‘Frankenstein’,” Mikey said cheekily. “After all, we have our very own monster.”

Frank grinned, showing all his teeth. Spencer was kind of horrified.

“You don’t need to waste your stuff on me,” Brendon said dejectedly.

“It’s not a waste,” Mikey replied. “I really liked my job.”

They followed Mikey down a set of stairs into the basement. He flicked a switch, and Spencer could hear the humming of a generator firing up. Mikey gave it a minute, then turned on the lights. It was like in the movies. Lights turned on in series across the long room, illuminating the shining equipment in Mikey’s spotlessly clean lab. Mikey raised his arms in a profoundly _ta-da_ way.

“Nice,” Spencer said.

“Thank you. Over here,” Mikey replied.

Mikey went to a long, high table that reminded Spencer of his high school chemistry lab. He pulled out two glass slides with little divots in them, and a handful of tiny glass bottles. Once he had everything arranged the way he liked, Mikey handed each of them a bandage.

“Hold that. I need a finger prick.”

Brendon snorted indelicately and Spencer wondered how exactly that was funny as he watched Mikey take a tiny sharp tool and stab Brendon’s finger. He didn’t even flinch. Spencer noted that Mikey saw it too, but he just dripped blood onto one of the slides. Brendon stuck the bandage in place while Mikey carefully added drops of liquid from the tiny bottles and waited for a reaction. After a minute, Mikey reached for Spencer’s hand and did it all again.

“What’s the verdict?” Brendon asked. “Even though you can probably tell just from looking at us. Were you right?”

“Yes,” Mikey said. “But you should always be sure. It’s never a good idea to make assumptions.”

“Well?”

“Spencer is a carrier.”

“No kids for me then, I guess,” he replied airily.

“No kids for anybody, really, unless they’re looking for a bad end,” Mikey agreed. “We’re really just a generation or two away from complete annihilation.”

“Awesome,” Spencer said flatly.

“So what about me?”

“You’re active, Brendon,” Mikey said. “I’m sorry.”

***

They went back upstairs to the kitchen for more coffee and the rest of the story. The toxin worked by slowing body functions down to the point that a person was considered dead. That deathlike suspended animation was a zombie. It was as good as dead, because the body’s cells weren’t functioning fast enough to maintain homeostasis, and the zombie started to rot. Brendon’s and Spencer’s eyes started to glaze over.

“Science was not my strongest subject,” Brendon admitted.

“I was an English teacher for fuck sake,” Spencer mumbled. Brendon shot him a look that was a hilarious combination of shock and awe. He was sure they would have to talk about it later.

“You learn pretty fast here. It’s your life,” said Ray.

“A little history might help here,” Mikey suggested. Frank and Ray groaned dramatically. It drew Buttercup from wherever he had disappeared to, his tiny hooves clicking on the floor as he trotted back.

“Let me tell it,” Gerard said. “I was in the comic book industry. I tell a better story.” He reached down under the table to scratch Buttercup’s head.

"You were an _artist_ ," Mikey pointed out.

They let him anyway.

***

“The concept of zombies comes from a combination of West African and Creole cultures. The idea was that somebody was trying to enslave people--”

“Sound familiar?”

“ _Shut up, Frank!_ ”

“So anyway, the point of zombification was power over other people through drugs and intimidation. Drugs like datura, which is a dissociative drug found in some plants, or tetrodotoxin--”

“My favorite!” chimed in Mikey.

“Which is found in puffer fish and sea toad and some other shit.”

“Puffer fish are awesome,” said Brendon.

“Right? Totally,” agreed Mikey.

“But clearly, what we have all seen is that the toxin killed most people. Those who survived weren’t affected because we carry the gene for ALS, and that somehow has a resistance.”

“It has to do with the proteins--” Mikey cut in, but Gerard waved him off. Mikey sat back with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pressed tightly together, annoyed.

“ _Or_ ,” Gerard went on, “the toxin acted differently. When it encountered the different proteins being made by an active ALS gene... Happy?” He looked to his brother, who nodded, grinning. “It moved slowly.”

“We saw it in Frank,” Ray said. “And now you, Brendon.”

“As best as I can tell,” Mikey began carefully,“the toxin actually _activates_ the ALS gene. It’s a disease of the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord that control voluntary muscle movement. The neurons waste away and die, and can no longer send messages to muscles. That’s why you’re so weak and uncoordinated. Your nerves and your muscles aren’t talking to each other any more.

“Normally, symptoms usually don’t develop until after age 50,” he continued. “It eventually gets worse and makes it impossible to do everyday things, like going up steps, getting out of a chair, or swallowing. When the muscles in the chest area stop working, it becomes hard or impossible to breathe on your own. But it’s slow. It takes years and years for all this to happen to someone, generally.”

“Zombie juice makes it happen faster,” Frank said grimly. “It started with cramps, but when they went away, it was like they took all my strength with them. It wasn’t bad at first; it was just my hands. But then it spread up my arms, and my legs, and I got really clumsy.”

“Worse than usual,” Ray added. Frank smacked him again.

“He was slurring his speech, too,” Gerard said. “I wondered if he was actually drunk for a while.”

“ _Maybe I was!_ ” Frank shot back. Gerard frowned at him and Frank softened a bit. “I would have shared.”

“Sure.”

“So. Yeah,” Frank cleared his throat. “I lost a lot of weight. Like, a _lot_ of weight.”

“Scary skinny,” Mikey said. “And his reflexes were weird, like you said, Spencer. Too much reaction in his arms and legs, and practically no gag reflex at all.”

“ _Hmmm,_ ” Brendon’s eyes glinted. “That could be interesting.”

“Yeah,” Mikey said with a cough. Frank just snickered, and Spencer wanted to bang his head against something. He settled for rolling his eyes instead. “There isn’t a cure,” Mikey said gently, leaning toward Brendon a little and looking at him closely. “There are drugs. They can slow the progression, and treat symptoms, but they aren’t a cure.”

“So what happened to Frank?” Brendon asked incredulously. “Why’s he still alive after all this?”

“We know a guy,” Frank replied.

“Understand, Brendon, that it doesn’t affect your senses. You’ll still be able to see and hear and taste and all that, and it doesn’t affect your mental functioning. You’ll still be able to think and reason,” Mikey explained. “Once you’ve gotten to where it’s difficult to breathe or swallow, that means time is running out.”

“What do you mean, ‘time is running out’?” Spencer wondered.

“It means you survive the zombie apocalypse but die slowly and painfully anyway,” Brendon said miserably.

“It means,” Gerard said, “that we can help, but we don’t have enough to do a full fix.”

“You have an antidote?” Brendon asked eagerly, perching on the edge of his seat.

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t understand,” Brendon said, shaking his head.

“What we have,” Mikey said, “is a little bit of the antidote to the zombie toxin. There was some left after we treated Frank, but the amount it took... We don’t have enough for a full second dose. I’m sorry, Brendon.”

“You keep saying that,” Brendon said. “It’s not like you did this.”

“ _The President_ did this,” Gerard hissed. “Mikey fixed it. He should have a fucking Nobel Prize! If there was anyone left to award it.”

“I didn’t just--” Mikey began hesitantly. “It wasn’t just my work. I _know_ that anyone left who has the means is working on it too. Besides, it was Pete who came up with the antidote.”

“Who’s Pete?” Spencer asked. “Are there more of you here?”

“No,” Gerard replied, shaking his head. “It’s just us.”

“Pete’s an old friend,” Mikey said fondly. “We went to grad school together. He was in LA before the outbreaks, and when it happened... He came flying through here like he was on fire.”

“Pete used to work for the government,” Ray supplied helpfully.

“He was an excellent resource. Lots to say,” Gerard added.

“You’d have to talk to him to get the details about what he did,” Mikey said. “We worked together in the lab downstairs for a while, but on different things. I was doing the DNA analysis, and he was working on the antidote. I don’t know exactly what he did. We weren’t keeping secrets, but everything was happening so fast, and we had Frank, and--”

“It’s ok, Mikes,” Gerard said softly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“No, no, we have to get Brendon the antidote,” Mikey said urgently.

“Let’s go,” Gerard announced to the room at large.

Everyone went down into the basement the second time, not just Spencer and Brendon and Mikey. It made Spencer wonder about it for a minute, but they seemed to be a very tightly-knit group and he didn’t want to argue. Who was he to say where they could go and where they couldn’t? It was their place, after all. Buttercup was put to bed in a room with a door that actually latched so he didn’t come looking or eat something unfortunate. Spencer was fairly sure that the goat would not be welcome in the lab.

They went deeper into the lab than they had the first time, past the high bench where Mikey performed their blood tests. The equipment was different. Fewer pieces of what Spencer had seen in his brief stints in high school science labs, and the few classes in college. “Science for Intermediate Teachers” it wasn’t.

Mikey finally led them to a glassed-in room, but stopped at the closed door.

“Only Brendon and I are going in,” he explained to Spencer. It sent a chill down his spine.

“Why?”

“Pete genetically modified a version of the botulism neurotoxin,” Mikey said.

“ _Botulism?_ ” Brendon squawked, before it even sunk in to Spencer’s brain. “You’re going to give me _botulism?_ ”

“Not exactly.”

“You keep saying that,” Brendon muttered sullenly. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Behind them, Gerard and Ray and Frank burst into a flurry of giggles.

“Pete’s modified botulinum is the antidote because it neutralizes the zombie toxin,” Mikey went on. “It causes your nervous system essentially to reboot.”

“What do you mean?”

“What happens is your nervous system shuts down briefly and you’re temporarily paralyzed. But it goes away,” Mikey explained in a terrifyingly cheerful tone.

“Of course all your friends freak out while that happens,” Frank added.

Brendon swayed on his feet and Spencer caught at him. Brendon’s face was deathly pale, and he looked up at Spencer clearly terrified. Spencer held on, hoping that his nearness, his solidity, helped keep Brendon calm.

“Are you ok?” Spencer asked him again. It took a moment for Brendon to respond.

“I will be. Will you be here? Outside?” Brendon wondered.

“Right here, the whole time,” Spencer replied. He was struck, suddenly, with how attached he had gotten to Brendon in such a short time. He had to stop to think about how they had met only just that morning, at Ian’s. It seemed like ages ago, when in fact they had only spent the day in the truck, driving along the highway.

Spencer released Brendon and he stood on his own, looking miserable. He glanced up at the others, who all gave enthusiastic thumbs-up, and then turned back to Mikey. Mikey pulled a lanyard out from underneath his shirt, a key dangling from the end, and unlocked the door. Brendon followed him silently inside.

All the guys crowded around Spencer as they watched Brendon and Mikey in the lab. They couldn’t hear a thing, but it was easy to see what they were doing. Mikey pushed up the sleeve of Brendon’s shirt and wiped a spot on his arm with a cotton ball. Spencer burst into hysterical giggles.

“He’s going to shoot him up with poison and he’s worried about infection?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of ridiculous,” Gerard agreed. “But he’ll be better after it’s all over, just wait.”

Mikey put on gloves and a mask, and for a brief second, Spencer was sure his heart had stopped. _A mask?_ What was he going to do to Brendon that he had to have that kind of protection? He stepped closer to the glass; his movement catching Brendon’s eye because he turned his head to look at Spencer as Mikey busied himself with vials and syringes. Mikey must have said something then because Brendon nodded and offered his arm.

When Mikey drove the syringe into Brendon’s arm, it seemed like everyone stopped breathing. They held their breaths, waiting to see what would happen. How he would react. Spencer felt disadvantaged. These guys all knew what they were going to see in that lab. Frank had lived it.

Brendon’s back arched alarmingly, his head thrown back and his eyes squeezed shut. He had been sitting on a low cushion, almost a bed, but Mikey helped ease him back to lie down. Spencer stepped closer to the glass again, his hands pressed flat to the window as he watched Brendon thrash. And then just as quickly, it stopped.

He must have made a sound because they were touching him, all three of them somehow, trying to be a comfort. Brendon lay motionless on the little cot. His eyes were open, but clearly unseeing. His thin chest seemed not to move at all, and Mikey, infuriatingly, just sat back and did nothing.

“It takes a few minutes,” Ray said in a low voice, close to Spencer’s ear. “He’ll come out of it. Mikey’s the best.”

“I know it’s hard, watching him like that,” Gerard added softly. Both of his hands gripped Spencer’s shoulders, and he wondered if Gerard let go if he would fall.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Frank said reassuringly. “He can’t feel a thing. I know it looks scary, but for him, it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I’ve killed him,” Spencer choked out.

“No,” Gerard said hastily. “You’ve saved his life.”

***

It did indeed take several minutes for Brendon to revive. There were several heart-stopping seconds where he looked blue, but Ray and Gerard assured him that it had happened that way with Frank too, and he turned out fine. It wasn’t really long enough to cause lasting damage. At least, not any worse than had already happened, or what was going to happen in the long run.

Spencer started hopping from foot to foot when Brendon began showing signs of recovery. Mikey wasn’t going to let him in, not until he had cleaned up and put away anything even remotely dangerous.

Spencer watched anxiously as Mikey tested Brendon’s reflexes. He tapped his knees and elbows, shined a light in his eyes, and looked in his mouth. Spencer could tell that they were both talking, but he had never been a lip reader and it was making him crazy. Mikey slapped Brendon heartily on the shoulder before he stood and made his way to the door alone. He left Brendon sitting on the cot.

Mikey closed the door carefully behind himself before he said anything. Spencer noticed the quick glance he cast at his brother and his friends before he settled on Spencer.

“He’s much better,” Mikey said, not beating about the bush. Spencer released a whoosh of air, feeling like he was literally deflating. “His reflexes are closer to normal, and even his voice sounds different. But he’s not out of the woods yet.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off Brendon. He looked so much better. There was color in his cheeks, his eyes were bright, and he just looked healthier.

“I gave him what we had left of the antidote, but it wasn’t enough,” Mikey replied. “When Frank was sick we ended up having to dose him three times before we were sure we got it all.”

“Three times?” Spencer said disbelievingly. “If you don’t have any more--what are we supposed to do?”

“You’re going to have to find Pete,” Frank said morosely.

“You say that like it’s going to be difficult. Wasn’t he here for a while?” Spencer asked.

“He was,” Gerard said. “But he didn’t feel like it was safe to stay.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“As safe here as anywhere, I guess,” Ray put in. “But I think Pete had his own reasons for leaving.”

“His family--” Gerard began hesitantly, looking at Mikey. “It was why he left LA so fast. Pete was originally from Chicago.”

“We managed to distract him for a little while here,” Mikey said.

“ _You_ did,” Frank muttered.

“We had to save you!” snapped Mikey, “and now Brendon. What would we have done if Pete hadn’t come?”

Frank scowled down at his feet and mumbled something so low Spencer didn’t catch it, but he figured Mikey did.

“Tell me what you know about Pete,” Spencer said, trying to get them back on track.

“We think he’s gone back to Chicago,” Mikey replied.

“You think?”

“That’s what he said,” Frank added.

“More or less,” Gerard agreed.

“Pete’s mother was taking care of his son,” Mikey said softly. Spencer felt like his blood chilled. He would have run too, if he had something like that on the other side.

“I get it,” he said suddenly. “It’s why we’re headed to Vegas. Brendon and I, we’re both from Vegas. Our families are there. They were there. I have to know...”

“Of course you do,” Gerard said soothingly. “And lucky for you, it’s on the way to Chicago.”

“Do you really think Pete went all the way back to Chicago in this?” Spencer wondered.

“If anyone could, it’s Pete,” Mikey said with a slight smile playing at his lips. “And you.”

“Well, wait, what about Brendon?” Spencer remembered hastily.

“He’ll have to go too, naturally,” replied Gerard, amused.

“Can I see him?” Spencer asked. “Is it safe, or does he have to stay in there until he’s not contagious?”

“He’s not contagious,” Mikey said. “He’s just resting. It takes a lot out of you to reboot.”

Mikey opened the glass door and let Spencer inside. Brendon remained sitting on the cot where Mikey had left him, sort of. He had made himself more comfortable while the scene had played out in the greater laboratory beyond the glass room. Spencer strode across the room and stopped where Brendon’s feet touched the tile, suddenly unsure as to what he was doing there.

“Are you ok?”

Spencer wanted to roll his eyes at himself as soon as the words came out of his mouth. It was like he kept saying the same thing over and over again, and yet he couldn’t figure out why he actually cared.

“I’m incredible, comparatively,” Brendon said, smiling wide.

“You sound different. Mikey said--”

“Yeah. This is more me,” Brendon replied. His smile grew impossibly bigger. “I want to sing; isn’t that stupid?”

“Go ahead, I guess,” Spencer shrugged.

“Nah,” Brendon shook his head. “It would just make you crazy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Spencer said. “So, um.”

“What’s up?”

“You up for a road trip?” Spencer suggested.

“Where to?” Brendon wondered.

“Chicago.”

“Are we still going to Vegas?”

“It’s on the way,” Spencer replied. “Besides, that was the deal, right? We go to Vegas... and then who knows? Now...”

“Yeah,” Brendon agreed. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Don’t you even want to know why?” Spencer asked.

Brendon shrugged. “I figured it had to be something to do with the antidote.”

“Pete’s supposed to be in Chicago,” Spencer nodded. “He’s the only one who knows how to make the antidote. Did Mikey tell you--”

“I was there, Spencer,” Brendon reminded him. “Sick, not stupid. The disease doesn’t affect mental functioning; I’m not _actually_ turning into a mindless zombie. Just looks like it.”

“Yeah. Right,” Spencer said, rubbing at his shoulder absently. “Tomorrow, then?”

“We probably shouldn’t waste any time,” Brendon agreed. “It took us four hours to make the two hour drive to Barstow. We can probably assume that it’ll take twice as long the rest of the way to Vegas too. And to Chicago, for that matter.”

“But for now, you should probably get some sleep,” Spencer suggested. Brendon nodded, his eyelids already drooping. He didn’t hesitate to just lean over and curl up into a ball. Spencer glanced around and noticed a blanket folded up underneath the cot. By the time he draped it over Brendon’s slight form Spencer could already hear him snoring softly.

Everyone was pointedly looking anywhere but in the isolation room when Spencer emerged.

“He’s asleep,” Spencer reported.

“Want to come back upstairs? We’ll get you something to eat and make sure you know all the details,” Gerard offered, leading the way.

“Sure, but--” Spencer turned back, looking at Brendon, fast asleep and unaware.

“I’ll leave a light on,” Mikey said, bringing up the rear.

***

If they made the assumption that travel would take twice as long as usual, like Brendon proposed, everyone agreed that it would take Spencer and Brendon roughly five days to reach Chicago. Mikey told Spencer that he had about ten days to find Pete and get another dose of the antidote before Brendon’s symptoms returned to their previous level of severity. The antidote was kind of like a hepatitis vaccine, one that you had to get in a series of shots in order to gain the full benefits.

It didn’t leave them a lot of time in Vegas, but Spencer figured they wouldn’t need much anyway, no matter what they found.

***

Spencer woke early, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. He was warm and comfortable and didn’t want to move. It drove him to alertness with some speed. He rarely woke up content. It was alarming. So was the fact that Buttercup the goat slept curled up pressed against his leg.

Spencer’s startled jerk jolted the little animal awake, and he bleated sleepily, butting his head on Spencer’s thigh.

“Aw.” Spencer’s head snapped up at the sound of Frank’s voice. He seemed to have been wandering down the hall, eating something out of a tin. “Want a peanut?”

“Nah,” Spencer declined, but Buttercup struggled to his feet to go beg at Frank’s. His happy crunching was loud in the quiet room.

“We need to get your tire fixed,” Frank reminded him.

“Yeah. Is there coffee?” Spencer asked blearily.

“In this place,” Frank replied, “there is always coffee. You can count on that.”

After caffeine fortification, Spencer emerged into the bright morning sunlight with Ray and Frank in tow. Ray actually helped Spencer change the tire. Frank acted as watchman.

Brendon appeared later, flanked by the brothers, with Buttercup cradled in his arms. Frank made a ridiculous noise at the sight of the goat and quickly abandoned his post to go scratch behind his ear and search his pockets for treats.

“You should keep him,” Brendon suggested, passing Buttercup over to Frank, who took him eagerly.

“I couldn’t...” Frank protested, even as Buttercup wriggled happily and took peanuts from his fingers.

“You could. You _should_ ,” Brendon argued. “Look, he loves you already. Besides, how could we repay you for all you’ve done?”

“Oh, well, then, of course,” Gerard said with a smirk.

“He couldn’t ride with us all the way to Chicago,” Spencer pointed out.

“He needs room to play,” Mikey agreed.

Frank just baby talked at the goat.

“It’s settled then,” Brendon said. “He’s yours.”

Ray helped Spencer do a quick last-minute once-over of the truck, giving quick directions to a nearby car dealer where he was sure Spencer could snag a new spare. Goodbyes were quick and heartfelt, sending Brendon scuttling into the passenger seat with dangerously sparkling eyes. Spencer rolled down his window to catch all the last things they had to say as the truck pulled away.

“Don’t forget what I told you about Pete,” Mikey called.

“I won’t,” Spencer said confidently.

Frank made Buttercup wave a hoof jauntily while Ray laughed and shook his head.

“ _Have fun storming the castle!_ ” shouted Gerard merrily, and they all four waved vigorously until Spencer and Brendon couldn’t see them any more.

***

Spencer drove all morning across the Mojave Desert. Brendon seemed to sigh every time they passed a joshua tree, but fell quiet the closer they drew to Las Vegas. Then he started to plan.

“Your mom’s place or mine first? Who’s closer to the highway?”

“I don’t think it makes a difference, but I think yours maybe?” Spencer suggested.

They found themselves inside the Vegas city limits by noon. It wasn’t ideal. Midday in Southern Nevada was rather warm on most days, oppressively hot on all the rest. It did nothing for Spencer’s mood. The deserted city in place of the glitter and hustle they remembered didn’t help either. Spencer was stonily silent, while Brendon was downright shellshocked.

The closer they got to Brendon’s old neighborhood, the more Spencer worried. He could see the white-knuckled death grip Brendon held on to the arm rests. Brendon grew pale, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his face despite the air conditioning. His eyes darted from side to side, desperate for signs of life. A sign of anything.

There was nothing to see.

Spencer knew the neighborhood well enough to navigate in on his own, but Brendon pointed wordlessly as needed until he finally croaked out, “stop.”

It was as Spencer feared. There was nothing, not even zombies disturbed the quiet as Brendon made his way to the front door of a dark house. Inside, Spencer took the lead. It wouldn’t do to let Brendon find something horrible. Spencer suspected he had nightmares enough.

"Mom? Dad?" Brendon called softly.

Spencer stopped and waited for a sound.

"I don't hear anything, Brendon," he said finally.

“We have to look. They might be hiding.”

“Of course.”

They moved silently through the first and second floors. Spencer even pulled down the ladder to the attic and stuck his head up there before Brendon led him to the basement. Spencer’s heart was in his throat the entire time, but they found nothing. Not only were there no zombies roaming the streets, but there weren’t even any signs of human life, past or present, except for all the things they left behind.

It was like everyone simply evaporated.

Brendon sank down to sit on the floor in the living room when they finished their search. Spencer followed closely, concerned. Brendon looked ready to break. His eyes were glazed and distant, and he moved as if he was on autopilot, without any thought at all.

Spencer sat down beside him.“So this is where you grew up?” It took a moment for him to respond but eventually Brendon nodded his head. “Tell me about them?”

It was a shot in the dark, but Spencer needed Brendon to be present, not lost in his own head. Slowly, Brendon started talking. He spoke of his numerous siblings, brothers and sisters both. They were all older, all married with families. Lots of little kids in the house.

"My father loved music like I do. He taught me my first songs on guitar," Brendon said softly. "Wasn't she beautiful, my mother? Everyone always said she looked too young to have adult children, let alone grandchildren. I look like her," he said gazing up at her image on the wall. "I hoped it meant I’d stay young and sweet like she had."

Tears coursed down Brendon’s face as he spoke. At first, Spencer looked away, finding pictures of everyone he mentioned and giving faces to the names. Soon though, Spencer had to give in and offer what comfort he could. Spencer inched closer and slipped an arm around Brendon’s shaking shoulders. Brendon leaned into him and Spencer could practically feel him breaking apart. Spencer just held on and let him cry.

It was a long time before Brendon was in any condition to discuss their plans.

“Did you want to stay here for a little while?” Spencer asked.

“Not really,” Brendon said miserably. He extricated himself from Spencer’s grasp and stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. “I want a picture of them,” he said, inspecting the family portraits displayed around the room, finally choosing one with the most people in it. Brendon’s hands were shaking as he took the picture from its frame, gently tracing each face in turn before he folded it and put it in his back pocket.

It wasn’t far from Brendon’s parents’ house to Spencer’s mother’s. It was funny how they had grown up so close but never knew each other; only to meet years later and hundreds of miles away.

The situation didn’t change as they moved. Las Vegas was dead. Spencer didn’t anticipate that they would be any more successful in this second search. That he was prepared to be disappointed didn’t make it hurt any less.

Spencer’s mother’s house was on a sunny cul-de-sac. Spencer pulled the truck right up into the driveway, something he never would have done in LA. The sound would have brought zombies in for blocks around. They didn’t seem to have that problem in Vegas.

He sat there staring at the house after he turned off the ignition.

“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want,” Brendon said softly.

“I do,” Spencer replied, unbuckling his seat belt. “It’s why I came. I have to know for sure.”

The door was locked. A thrill coursed through Spencer’s body, and he turned to look at Brendon with something that felt a lot like hope.

“Do you have a key?” Brendon asked.

“No, but...” he cast around the entrance, looking for a likely spot. He looked under the mat, in flower pots and the mailbox, and finally found a fake rock tucked in amongst the landscaping. A key was inside.

“How did she never get robbed?” Brendon wondered.

“I have no idea.”

The door opened easily, revealing an empty house. It was much the same as at Brendon’s. Spencer couldn’t tell from what was left what had happened to his mother and sisters. There were no bodies, no signs of a struggle, no blood on the floor. It was like they disappeared.

Spencer needed some time to deal with it. He sat on the bottom step of the flight of stairs that led to the bedrooms above. Brendon watched him anxiously, the signs of grief etched upon his face. Spencer knew that he looked much the same way.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Brendon asked. Spencer was struck with a sense of deja vu. “We don’t have to, but it’s a good place. And I don’t know if you should really be driving right now.”

“Whatever.”

Brendon sat down next to him, offering Spencer the comfort of his presence since there was nothing else. Spencer hid his face in his hands. He didn’t cry--he was kind of beyond that--but he wanted to curl up into a ball. Brendon swept a hand down his back and up again, over and over. It was soothing, and Spencer found himself relaxing into it.

“Before we left, Ian told me we were a team, you and I,” Brendon said. “We have to take care of each other, watch our backs because no one else would. Because there is no one else. I thought he was exaggerating. There were plenty of people in LA.

“Then this morning, while you were out fixing the truck, Gerard and Mikey kind of expanded on the idea. Going to Chicago to find Pete is like a quest, right? There’s... nothing left for us. We need to find a reason. We need to find something to live for.”

_Something to live for._ It made sense. He had left Los Angeles in order to determine the fate of his loved ones. Brendon had wanted the same thing. Now that they had made it to Vegas, they had answers, of a sort, even if they were unsatisfying. Now, all they had left was each other.

Spencer raised his head and looked at Brendon, whose hand stilled at the small of his back. They sat on the step and just stared at each other, practically nose to nose. Spencer came to the realization slowly.

“It’s you,” he whispered. "I have to save you. For humanity," he dropped his gaze and took a shaky breath. "And for me." And he leaned the slightest bit to press his lips to Brendon’s.

Brendon gasped, his parted lips damp and red and tempting. Spencer had a second of complete terror, convinced that he had ruined everything, but Brendon just leaned in again and kissed him back.

Spencer’s whole body tingled and he was hyper-aware of all the places they were touching. He found his hands suddenly touching Brendon’s skin, cupping his face and stroking his cheek with a thumb. Brendon moaned softly and the kiss intensified. Brendon gripped Spencer’s shoulders, dragging him closer until it threw them off balance and Spencer slid off the step onto the floor.

They looked at each other in shocked silence, panting as if they had run a marathon. Spencer moved first, climbing to his feet and hauling Brendon up after him up the stairs. He went to his old room; his mother had converted it into a guest bedroom, mostly by removing any traces of his childhood detritus and changing the curtains. Spencer didn’t care, really, as long as it had a bed.

Brendon kicked the door closed behind them and dragged Spencer down by his hair for another kiss. They tugged at each other’s clothes, frantically searching for skin, and breaking apart only long enough to yank shirts over their heads. Spencer led Brendon across the room and urged him down onto the bed. Brendon went easily, pulling Spencer along so that he ended up stretched along the length of Brendon’s lean body, nestled between his legs.

Brendon craned his neck, reaching for Spencer’s mouth, his body arching beneath him. Spencer rolled his hips experimentally, his erection dragging along Brendon’s hip and effectively trapping Brendon’s between them.

Brendon whimpered against Spencer’s mouth.

“ _Spencer._ I want, I want—“

Spencer mouthed along his jaw and down his neck, stopping to bite down on Brendon’s collar bone until he shouted and scrabbled at Spencer’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the skin. Spencer shifted, drawing a hand down Brendon’s body to grasp his cock firmly. Brendon threw his head back and moaned throatily as Spencer proceeded to jerk him off.

Brendon was hot and flushed and his skin was silky smooth under Spencer’s hands. He was incredibly responsive, writhing and babbling as Spencer touched him. It emboldened Spencer, and he pressed his body along Brendon’s and poured a stream of praise and dirty talk alike into his ear.

Brendon’s cock jerked in Spencer’s hand and he came with a shout. He twisted and squirmed until he could reach Spencer, swiping his hand through the come on his belly before curling his dripping fingers along Spencer’s length. Spencer gasped in his ear, and he could feel the curve of Brendon's lips as he smiled.

" _Yes,_ " he hissed. "Just like that."

"Like that?" Brendon asked, adding a twist to his wrist that made Spencer's toes curl and his eyes threaten to roll back in his head.

"Just like that," Spencer agreed heartily.

"Not, say, _that?_ " Brendon teased, flicking his thumb across the leaking head of Spencer's cock and then pressing _just right_ underneath it.

Spencer stiffened and came with his mouth pressed into Brendon's shoulder to muffle the whimper that escaped. It mostly worked. Brendon's smile was sleepy sated and fond, so Spencer didn't feel the need to be too horrified about his embarrassing sex noises.

They did a cursory clean-up, merely wiping off with a corner of the bedspread and calling it good. Brendon was lazy, and content to curl up where they were for the rest of the night, even if it was kind if early. They were sure to want to get up to get something to eat later, but Spencer was fine too, just lying in bed with Brendon and not worrying about anything.

***

Spencer woke for the second morning in a row warm and comfortable. Brendon was wrapped around him, sprawled over more than half the bed, and generally taking up far more space than Spencer thought possible. He was hot, even having kicked off most of the sheets, and Spencer found himself testing Brendon’s forehead.

“I run hot,” he said blearily. “Usually.”

“I didn’t notice, uh, before.”

“Yeah, well,” Brendon said, scrubbing at his eyes. “It was part of the deterioration, I guess. I felt cold.”

Brendon shuddered and snuggled up closer. Spencer wrapped him in his arms and pulled him in even tighter. Brendon tucked his nose up under Spencer’s jaw and sighed.

“You’re not cold anymore,” Spencer pointed out unnecessarily.

“I’m not mostly dead anymore either,” Brendon said with a throaty chuckle.

“ _That_ I did notice,” Spencer smirked.

Brendon pushed up onto his elbow, leering.

“A little less like necrophilia then, thinking dirty things about me.”

Spencer sputtered.

“I didn’t--”

“I saw you looking, back at Ian’s. Could see it in your eyes, what you were thinking once I got cleaned up. Or were you, even before--”

“ _No!_ ” Spencer protested. “Brendon, you were--”

“Mostly dead,” Brendon’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “That do it for you? Should I take a cold bath, then lie very still?” Spencer swatted at him. “Close my eyes and hold my breath, so you can--”

“ _Brendon!_ ”

He laughed.

“No necrophilia then?”

“Not so much, no,” Spencer replied, shaking his head.

“So the zombie apocalypse isn’t your dirtiest fantasy come to life?” Brendon teased, leaning down and breathing hot in Spencer’s ear.

“Well, I didn’t say that,” Spencer murmured, stretching his neck to give Brendon better access. “But it has very little to do with the zombies.”

***

It continued to be slow going through Nevada, the little of that they actually had to go through, as well as into Utah. It seemed that initial survivorship had been high out here in the west, so there were a lot more cars randomly abandoned on the roads that Spencer had to drive around, much like it had been in LA.

He noticed, though, that the higher they got in elevation, the more it thinned. Their goal for that first day of driving was Grand Junction, a city that it usually would have taken Spencer about seven hours to reach. Six, really, if he was being honest.

It took them closer to ten.

It was cooler in Grand Junction when they finally stopped for the night. It wasn’t hard to find someplace cooler than Las Vegas, generally, but Spencer took it as a sign that they were indeed getting closer to passing over the mountains. Grand Junction was on the upslope; there was still a long way to go.

They decided to try to stay in a motel. It was easy for them to find a crappy little place off the highway that still used actual keys. The office was open, and Spencer chose two keys hanging on a plaque behind the check-in desk; a backup, just in case.

There hadn’t been a lot of zombie activity in Colorado, but unlike Vegas, they did see some. Brendon would catch movement out of the corner of his eye as he looked out across the landscape. If Spencer slowed down to a crawl, or even stopped the truck, they were pretty good about picking out the zombies shambling along the streets. They didn’t feel the need to destroy them, not when they weren’t going to stay. It would be a waste of their time and energy, and most importantly, their supplies.

Brendon raided the motel for food. He didn’t really find anything good, snacks and the like, but it would hold them over for another day without breaking into the better stuff that Spencer had in the truck. They sat on the over-firm mattress in their chosen room--the second one, so they knew that they had the first one they looked into if they decided they needed to move for any reason. Brendon didn’t ask what reason would force them to move to a different room, and Spencer didn’t offer any.

Soon, Spencer found himself wanting, as Brendon sucked the cheese dust off his fingers. It was profoundly unsexy, but Brendon smiled lasciviously as he passed from finger to finger, and finally pushed Spencer back onto the pillows to attack his mouth with biting kisses. It was frantic. Their fingers scrabbled against skin, pushing away clothes; sure to leave bruises they would see in the morning.

Spencer ended up flat on his back with Brendon wrestling with the fastening on his pants. He laughed as Brendon fumbled and struggled, finally dragging Spencer's pants down and off. Spencer helpfully freed his feet and narrowly missed kneeing Brendon in the face. Brendon just chucked the fabric over his shoulder and leaned in to peel off Spencer's boxers with both hands. He sucked down Spencer's cock as it sprang free, pressing two fingers into his hips as he bobbed his head, taking him deeper and deeper in long, smooth strokes.

Spencer rested his hands on Brendon's shoulders, not pushing, just being there. Brendon hummed, and his eyes slipped closed. Spencer swept a thumb over his cheek, feeling the angle of the strong bones just under the skin. Brendon leaned into his touch and hummed again, until Spencer pushed up and tangled his fingers in his hair. Brendon let out a strangled moan, forcing himself further down on Spencer's cock. Spencer could feel the tickle of the back of his throat and used Brendon's hair to pull him back the slightest bit.

"Do you want me to come down your throat?" Spencer asked with a warning tone.

Brendon pulled off with an obscene slurp and looked up at Spencer with heat in his wide dark eyes. "Yes," he said simply.

Spencer's hips bucked involuntarily and Brendon smirked before sucking him down again and setting a torturous pace. Spencer laughed breathlessly and tugged at Brendon's hair in time to his rhythm. Brendon relaxed under his hands, his mouth still working Spencer ardently. Spencer bucked again when his orgasm crashed through him, murmuring apologies even as Brendon wiped come off his chin.

Brendon crawled up Spencer's body, licking his lips before diving in and kissing him soundly. Spencer could taste himself on Brendon's tongue, and he chased the bitterness until it was gone. Brendon ground down on Spencer's thigh, his kisses growing desperate. Spencer grasped him by the hips and eased him off to the side so he could tug down his pants and return the favor.

Spencer stroked him fast and tight. Brendon gasped when Spencer stopped to lick his palm, then continued wet, Brendon's cock slipping easily through his fist. Brendon bucked and writhed, trying vainly to fuck Spencer's hand, but Spencer controlled it, changing the pace, or the angle, or the tightness of his grip so Brendon couldn't work himself to completion until Spencer let him.

"Spencer, please!" Brendon whined, pressing biting kisses at Spencer's mouth. Spencer just smiled as he watched Brendon's length slip and slide through his fist.

"Do you want me to suck you off?" Spencer asked, but before he could move, Brendon cried out and came across his fingers. Spencer laughed, squeezing Brendon's cock once more and raising his hand to his mouth, sucking off the come as Brendon groaned. "Maybe next time."

"Yeah," Brendon gasped. "Definitely."

"It's a plan," Spencer agreed.

[CONTINUE ON TO PART 3](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/20366.html)


	3. When It All Goes to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end. (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.) Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...

**TITLE:** When It All Goes to Hell  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://ohnoscarlett.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohnoscarlett**](http://ohnoscarlett.livejournal.com/)  
 **BANDS:** Panic, MCR, FOB  
 **PAIRING:** Brendon/Spencer  
 **WORD COUNT:** 26k  
 **RATING:** NC-17  
 **WARNINGS:** sex, violence  
 **SUMMARY:** It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end. (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.) Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...

[PART 1](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/19783.html)

PART 2  
  
Brendon was seriously enamored of the goat, and it seemed mutual. The little animal curled up in Brendon's lap and cuddled as Brendon scratched and stroked him.

"I miss my dog," Brendon admitted at one point. He hadn’t mentioned his girlfriend after the first time. Spencer didn’t blame him.

"Me too," Spencer replied. Brendon perked up.

"You had a dog?"

"Two," he said. "Old girlfriend took them when we broke up."

"Yeah, that sucks," Brendon said sympathetically. Spencer just shrugged. She had been gone a long time.

Spencer learned about how Brendon had been a musician. He was like riding with a radio again. Brendon sang snippets of songs, changing abruptly if Spencer seemed unreceptive; singing the whole thing if it was otherwise. He apparently played a boatload of instruments. He had been a studio musician, and if Spencer was to look, he could find Brendon's name in dozens of liner notes.

"Were you ever in a band?" Spencer wondered.

"No. I wish I had. I tried. Couldn't keep a bass player interested," Brendon replied with a laugh. His eyes slipped shut and he fell silent for several minutes; long enough that Spencer thought he had fallen asleep again. "I feel mostly dead."

"Mostly dead?"

"Ugh, totally. You know, 'he's not all dead, just mostly dead'." Brendon's Billy Crystal as Miracle Max was pretty good.

"You do impressions really well. Impersonations. Impressions."

Brendon's smile spread wide. "Thanks," he said. "Tends to go over well. Crowd pleasers."

"Well, the zombies seemed convinced," Spencer put in.

"Sure," Brendon said resignedly. "Like I said: mostly dead. It wasn't that hard to pretend."

"There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead," Spencer quoted carefully. "Mostly dead is slightly alive."

Brendon looked out the window and grinned.

When they came to the route 15 interchange, the highway started to open up. Spencer still didn't dare to go too fast, but there weren't nearly as many obstacles. It was as good a time as any to think about finding some gas. The tank wasn't too low, but you couldn't count on finding a functional gas pump anywhere, particularly out in the desert.

Spencer pulled up next to a car and reached under his seat. Brendon watched interestedly.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going to try to siphon some gas out of this car," Spencer answered. Brendon's eyebrows rose sharply and stayed there when Spencer pulled his handgun out from behind his seat. "Do you know how to use this?" Brendon nodded silently. Spencer placed the gun in his hands. Brendon eased the goat off his lap and onto the floor. "Cover me."

"Right."

Spencer stepped out of the truck with a short plastic siphon in his hands. He heard Brendon climb out the other side and come around closer. It was taking a chance. You never knew if a car had been abandoned because of something that happened on the road or if they just ran out of gas. It could take a couple stops.

They were lucky. Spencer was able to nearly fill his five-gallon gas can before the siphon started sucking air. He turned to pour it into his own tank, getting a nod from Brendon. There were three more cars they could check fairly close together before they moved on

Once they finally got out of the city--seriously, Los Angeles went on forever--Spencer could pick it up a little. They were buzzing along an almost completely deserted highway and doing just fine. Spencer had hoped to have made it to Vegas by nightfall, but they weren't even close.

They were halfway. Halfway was Barstow. And of course it was when things started to go sideways on them.

Spencer began thinking about stopping for the night, trying to decide whether it would be a better idea to do it in the desert or in town. He hadn’t even opened his mouth to go over their options with Brendon when there was a loud bang and the truck started handling funny.

"What was that?" Brendon squawked. "A gunshot?"

"No, it's the truck."

Spencer slowed the land rover to a stop and took a deep breath. He had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and a sinking feeling in his gut. There were only so many things he could do.

Spencer and Brendon both climbed out of the truck carefully. The engine wasn't smoking or knocking, and that right there lifted a huge weight off Spencer's mind. They circled the vehicle slowly, Spencer moving forward, and Brendon going around the back. Brendon's hiss was loud and clear in the night air.

"What is it?" Spencer called as he rounded the vehicle.

"Blown tire."

"Oh thank fuck," Spencer breathed.

"What?" Brendon squinted at him in the fading light.

"A tire is no big deal," Spencer replied confidently. "A tire is something I can fix."

"Oh. Good."

"Not now you're not," came a voice from the shadows. Spencer and Brendon whirled around, Spencer drawing his gun and pushing Brendon behind him in one move.

"Who's there?" Spencer snapped.

Two figures emerged slowly, and Spencer could tell, trying to look harmless. Two guys, youngish; one with wild curly hair that immediately reminded Spencer of Ian.

"Hey," the other one said as greeting. Spencer jerked his chin at him. The guy grinned and Spencer could feel Brendon waving at him over his shoulder. "Car trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Spencer said curtly.

"Sure," the guy said. "But it's not exactly safe out here."

"You have zombies?" Spencer asked. Both guys nodded.

"Not many," Not-Ian said softly. "But they're out there."

"Would you like to come in?" the first guy suggested. "We have a place just around back. There are four of us. I'm Gerard and this is Ray."

"I don't know..." Spencer began hesitantly. Brendon jabbed him in the side and hissed in his ear.

" _Spencer!_ they could help us."

"They could also skin us alive and take all our stuff," Spencer muttered caustically.

“We wouldn’t,” Ray put in helpfully.

“We’re mostly vegetarian these days,” Gerard added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Spencer could practically feel Brendon smiling at his back. Of course.

"I have to get Buttercup!" Brendon exclaimed, turning on his heel and diving back in the truck. Both of the newcomers watched wide-eyed as he climbed back out with the little goat in his arms.

“Ah,” said Ray sagely. Gerard just smiled.

Spencer and Brendon followed Gerard and Ray around the back of the building and through a nondescript gray door that had no handle to speak of. Spencer figured that it must be part of their security. He at least had no idea how Ray had gotten it open. Zombies definitely wouldn’t even try.

Inside, it was warm and softly lit with a combination of candles and battery-powered lamps. The place seemed to have been a church, of all things. One of those modern ones that looked like any old building from the outside, without all the old stonework or a steeple.

Two more guys looked up from where they sat going through an enormous book together.

“It _was_ something,” Ray said to them as they rose.

“This is Frank,” Gerard said, gesturing to a dark little man covered in tattoos, who nodded in response. “And my brother, Michael.”

“Mikey,” he said, stepping forward with a smile to shake first Brendon’s and then Spencer’s hand. Spencer could definitely see the family resemblance.

“I’m Spencer,” he said.

“Brendon.”

“What brings you to sunny Barstow?” Gerard asked. “We haven’t seen you around before.”

“Are there many people here?” Brendon wondered.

“No,” Frank said. “We’re out a lot, looking. So we would have noticed the two of you. And a goat.”

Brendon grinned and bobbed a little in response.

“We’re headed to Vegas,” Spencer said, finally answering Gerard’s question. “Just passing through, you know?”

“Until your tire,” Ray added.

“Yeah,” Brendon replied softly.

Spencer looked at Brendon sharply.

“Are you ok?” he asked in a low voice.

“Tired,” Brendon replied. “Just tired.”

Mikey and Frank exchanged a look as well.

“How long have you been sick?” Mikey asked gently.

“I’m not--I haven’t--” Brendon stuttered.

“It’s ok; we’re not going to hurt you,” Gerard said.

“Frank was sick too,” Mikey pointed out. Frank bobbed his head in agreement.

“But--” Brendon began.

“How do you know--” Spencer started.

“Mikey’s a biochemist,” Gerard stated proudly.

“Let’s explain,” Mikey said, and they all trooped in to a little kitchen to sit around a battered table while Gerard fiddled with an ancient coffee pot. “So, if we’re right,” Mikey continued, “your body functions are slowing down.”

“I don’t know...” Brendon said, shaking his head, but Spencer cut in.

“His reflexes are weird, and it’s like his muscles don’t work. He’s really weak.”

“And kind of... goofy?” Ray suggested. Frank punched him in the arm.

“Yeah, I guess,” Spencer said as Brendon frowned at him. “I didn’t know him before.”

“That can be hard to tell if you don’t have anything to compare to,” Mikey agreed.

“May just have been weird to begin with!” Gerard added with a grin as he slouched against the counter.

“I’m right here!” Brendon protested. They all laughed. Buttercup bleated and wiggled until Brendon set him down on the floor and he promptly wandered off. Spencer hoped he didn’t get into any trouble.

“So what do you know?” Spencer asked.

“Well, there’s what we know for sure, and what we think we know,” Gerard said cryptically.

“We know that our fearless leader was a crazy motherfucker,” Frank said bluntly.

"The President of the United States; our commander in chief," Ray clarified sadly.

Frank spat on the floor, disgusted, before he continued. “And in his quest for power, he unleashed some kind of neurotoxin on his own people.”

Brendon and Spencer gasped. Television had gone dead pretty quickly, as had radio. There had been little to no news about what was happening as people had succumbed to illness.

“How do you know?” Brendon asked breathlessly.

“We have our sources,” Frank replied.

“As best we can tell, it was a bid for power, like Frank said,” Ray went on. “But rather than enslaving millions of helpless Americans in a mindless army--”

“It either killed them immediately, or turned them into zombies,” Frank cut in. “And _they_ ate pretty much everybody else.”

“That’s what I’ve seen,” Spencer agreed.

“Spencer is a zombie hunter,” Brendon said, puffing up a little, and sounding oddly similar in tone to Gerard in his description of Mikey.

“So you know,” Ray said confidently. Spencer shrugged. “We figure there must be a third option.”

“What do you mean?” Brendon wondered.

“Well, how do you explain all of us?” Mikey asked. “Why didn’t we die or turn into zombies?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Gerard said wistfully. Mikey pointed a long finger at him and squinted in a way Spencer assumed was meant to be menacing. It really wasn’t especially with everyone else stifling giggles or just outright grinning at them. He figured it was a long story.

“So why are we alive?” Ray prompted, and Mikey stopped scowling at his brother to return his attention to the story.

“We must be a third option,” he said. “In everyone else, the toxin was quick. Neurotoxins are, they work on your nervous system, after all, and that’s operating in milliseconds. In us,” Mikey gestured to his friends, “it didn’t work at all.”

“Did you--” Spencer began hesitantly. “Did you _experiment_ on yourself?”

“Not exactly. It’s not like I shot us all up with zombie juice,” Mikey said kind of stiffly. “I isolated the toxin and introduced it to some cell cultures. Nothing happened.” Brendon and Spencer kind of looked at him blankly. “If the toxin worked on us, the cells would have died. They didn’t.”

“Well... why not?” Spencer asked.

“That’s what I thought. So I kept digging. I ran an assay to do a comparison of our DNA. See what we had in common,” Mikey said. “Turns out we all shared a marker.”

“Really? You found something?” Brendon exclaimed. “You must be one badass biochemist.”

Mikey blushed as everyone else laughed at the outburst.

“What was it?” Spencer pushed him to continue.

“ALS.” Brendon and Spencer shook their heads. “Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s Disease. We’re all carriers.”

They were silent for a long moment.

“Except for me,” Frank added. “I have the active gene.”

“Wow,” Brendon said softly.

“What happened?” Spencer asked.

“Frank almost died,” Gerard replied.

“You’re getting ahead,” Mikey complained. “With the single allele, it’s recessive, so we won’t develop ALS, or turn into zombies because the toxin doesn’t work on us. But with both alleles, the gene is active. So that means that it’s possible that Frank will one day develop the disease.” Brendon sighed mournfully and Gerard patted his shoulder and pressed a cup of coffee into his hands. “It’s no guarantee,” Mikey went on. “There’s no death sentence just because the gene is there. That’s true for everything. But when he was exposed to the toxin, he reacted a little differently. Kind of like you, Brendon.”

“Oh shit.”

“Would you like me to test you?” Mikey offered.

“You can do that here?” Brendon asked.

“Sure. I have a lab in the basement.”

“How very ‘I Am Legend’ of you,” Spencer muttered.

“I prefer ‘Frankenstein’,” Mikey said cheekily. “After all, we have our very own monster.”

Frank grinned, showing all his teeth. Spencer was kind of horrified.

“You don’t need to waste your stuff on me,” Brendon said dejectedly.

“It’s not a waste,” Mikey replied. “I really liked my job.”

They followed Mikey down a set of stairs into the basement. He flicked a switch, and Spencer could hear the humming of a generator firing up. Mikey gave it a minute, then turned on the lights. It was like in the movies. Lights turned on in series across the long room, illuminating the shining equipment in Mikey’s spotlessly clean lab. Mikey raised his arms in a profoundly _ta-da_ way.

“Nice,” Spencer said.

“Thank you. Over here,” Mikey replied.

Mikey went to a long, high table that reminded Spencer of his high school chemistry lab. He pulled out two glass slides with little divots in them, and a handful of tiny glass bottles. Once he had everything arranged the way he liked, Mikey handed each of them a bandage.

“Hold that. I need a finger prick.”

Brendon snorted indelicately and Spencer wondered how exactly that was funny as he watched Mikey take a tiny sharp tool and stab Brendon’s finger. He didn’t even flinch. Spencer noted that Mikey saw it too, but he just dripped blood onto one of the slides. Brendon stuck the bandage in place while Mikey carefully added drops of liquid from the tiny bottles and waited for a reaction. After a minute, Mikey reached for Spencer’s hand and did it all again.

“What’s the verdict?” Brendon asked. “Even though you can probably tell just from looking at us. Were you right?”

“Yes,” Mikey said. “But you should always be sure. It’s never a good idea to make assumptions.”

“Well?”

“Spencer is a carrier.”

“No kids for me then, I guess,” he replied airily.

“No kids for anybody, really, unless they’re looking for a bad end,” Mikey agreed. “We’re really just a generation or two away from complete annihilation.”

“Awesome,” Spencer said flatly.

“So what about me?”

“You’re active, Brendon,” Mikey said. “I’m sorry.”

***

They went back upstairs to the kitchen for more coffee and the rest of the story. The toxin worked by slowing body functions down to the point that a person was considered dead. That deathlike suspended animation was a zombie. It was as good as dead, because the body’s cells weren’t functioning fast enough to maintain homeostasis, and the zombie started to rot. Brendon’s and Spencer’s eyes started to glaze over.

“Science was not my strongest subject,” Brendon admitted.

“I was an English teacher for fuck sake,” Spencer mumbled. Brendon shot him a look that was a hilarious combination of shock and awe. He was sure they would have to talk about it later.

“You learn pretty fast here. It’s your life,” said Ray.

“A little history might help here,” Mikey suggested. Frank and Ray groaned dramatically. It drew Buttercup from wherever he had disappeared to, his tiny hooves clicking on the floor as he trotted back.

“Let me tell it,” Gerard said. “I was in the comic book industry. I tell a better story.” He reached down under the table to scratch Buttercup’s head.

"You were an _artist_ ," Mikey pointed out.

They let him anyway.

***

“The concept of zombies comes from a combination of West African and Creole cultures. The idea was that somebody was trying to enslave people--”

“Sound familiar?”

“ _Shut up, Frank!_ ”

“So anyway, the point of zombification was power over other people through drugs and intimidation. Drugs like datura, which is a dissociative drug found in some plants, or tetrodotoxin--”

“My favorite!” chimed in Mikey.

“Which is found in puffer fish and sea toad and some other shit.”

“Puffer fish are awesome,” said Brendon.

“Right? Totally,” agreed Mikey.

“But clearly, what we have all seen is that the toxin killed most people. Those who survived weren’t affected because we carry the gene for ALS, and that somehow has a resistance.”

“It has to do with the proteins--” Mikey cut in, but Gerard waved him off. Mikey sat back with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pressed tightly together, annoyed.

“ _Or_ ,” Gerard went on, “the toxin acted differently. When it encountered the different proteins being made by an active ALS gene... Happy?” He looked to his brother, who nodded, grinning. “It moved slowly.”

“We saw it in Frank,” Ray said. “And now you, Brendon.”

“As best as I can tell,” Mikey began carefully,“the toxin actually _activates_ the ALS gene. It’s a disease of the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord that control voluntary muscle movement. The neurons waste away and die, and can no longer send messages to muscles. That’s why you’re so weak and uncoordinated. Your nerves and your muscles aren’t talking to each other any more.

“Normally, symptoms usually don’t develop until after age 50,” he continued. “It eventually gets worse and makes it impossible to do everyday things, like going up steps, getting out of a chair, or swallowing. When the muscles in the chest area stop working, it becomes hard or impossible to breathe on your own. But it’s slow. It takes years and years for all this to happen to someone, generally.”

“Zombie juice makes it happen faster,” Frank said grimly. “It started with cramps, but when they went away, it was like they took all my strength with them. It wasn’t bad at first; it was just my hands. But then it spread up my arms, and my legs, and I got really clumsy.”

“Worse than usual,” Ray added. Frank smacked him again.

“He was slurring his speech, too,” Gerard said. “I wondered if he was actually drunk for a while.”

“ _Maybe I was!_ ” Frank shot back. Gerard frowned at him and Frank softened a bit. “I would have shared.”

“Sure.”

“So. Yeah,” Frank cleared his throat. “I lost a lot of weight. Like, a _lot_ of weight.”

“Scary skinny,” Mikey said. “And his reflexes were weird, like you said, Spencer. Too much reaction in his arms and legs, and practically no gag reflex at all.”

“ _Hmmm,_ ” Brendon’s eyes glinted. “That could be interesting.”

“Yeah,” Mikey said with a cough. Frank just snickered, and Spencer wanted to bang his head against something. He settled for rolling his eyes instead. “There isn’t a cure,” Mikey said gently, leaning toward Brendon a little and looking at him closely. “There are drugs. They can slow the progression, and treat symptoms, but they aren’t a cure.”

“So what happened to Frank?” Brendon asked incredulously. “Why’s he still alive after all this?”

“We know a guy,” Frank replied.

“Understand, Brendon, that it doesn’t affect your senses. You’ll still be able to see and hear and taste and all that, and it doesn’t affect your mental functioning. You’ll still be able to think and reason,” Mikey explained. “Once you’ve gotten to where it’s difficult to breathe or swallow, that means time is running out.”

“What do you mean, ‘time is running out’?” Spencer wondered.

“It means you survive the zombie apocalypse but die slowly and painfully anyway,” Brendon said miserably.

“It means,” Gerard said, “that we can help, but we don’t have enough to do a full fix.”

“You have an antidote?” Brendon asked eagerly, perching on the edge of his seat.

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t understand,” Brendon said, shaking his head.

“What we have,” Mikey said, “is a little bit of the antidote to the zombie toxin. There was some left after we treated Frank, but the amount it took... We don’t have enough for a full second dose. I’m sorry, Brendon.”

“You keep saying that,” Brendon said. “It’s not like you did this.”

“ _The President_ did this,” Gerard hissed. “Mikey fixed it. He should have a fucking Nobel Prize! If there was anyone left to award it.”

“I didn’t just--” Mikey began hesitantly. “It wasn’t just my work. I _know_ that anyone left who has the means is working on it too. Besides, it was Pete who came up with the antidote.”

“Who’s Pete?” Spencer asked. “Are there more of you here?”

“No,” Gerard replied, shaking his head. “It’s just us.”

“Pete’s an old friend,” Mikey said fondly. “We went to grad school together. He was in LA before the outbreaks, and when it happened... He came flying through here like he was on fire.”

“Pete used to work for the government,” Ray supplied helpfully.

“He was an excellent resource. Lots to say,” Gerard added.

“You’d have to talk to him to get the details about what he did,” Mikey said. “We worked together in the lab downstairs for a while, but on different things. I was doing the DNA analysis, and he was working on the antidote. I don’t know exactly what he did. We weren’t keeping secrets, but everything was happening so fast, and we had Frank, and--”

“It’s ok, Mikes,” Gerard said softly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“No, no, we have to get Brendon the antidote,” Mikey said urgently.

“Let’s go,” Gerard announced to the room at large.

Everyone went down into the basement the second time, not just Spencer and Brendon and Mikey. It made Spencer wonder about it for a minute, but they seemed to be a very tightly-knit group and he didn’t want to argue. Who was he to say where they could go and where they couldn’t? It was their place, after all. Buttercup was put to bed in a room with a door that actually latched so he didn’t come looking or eat something unfortunate. Spencer was fairly sure that the goat would not be welcome in the lab.

They went deeper into the lab than they had the first time, past the high bench where Mikey performed their blood tests. The equipment was different. Fewer pieces of what Spencer had seen in his brief stints in high school science labs, and the few classes in college. “Science for Intermediate Teachers” it wasn’t.

Mikey finally led them to a glassed-in room, but stopped at the closed door.

“Only Brendon and I are going in,” he explained to Spencer. It sent a chill down his spine.

“Why?”

“Pete genetically modified a version of the botulism neurotoxin,” Mikey said.

“ _Botulism?_ ” Brendon squawked, before it even sunk in to Spencer’s brain. “You’re going to give me _botulism?_ ”

“Not exactly.”

“You keep saying that,” Brendon muttered sullenly. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Behind them, Gerard and Ray and Frank burst into a flurry of giggles.

“Pete’s modified botulinum is the antidote because it neutralizes the zombie toxin,” Mikey went on. “It causes your nervous system essentially to reboot.”

“What do you mean?”

“What happens is your nervous system shuts down briefly and you’re temporarily paralyzed. But it goes away,” Mikey explained in a terrifyingly cheerful tone.

“Of course all your friends freak out while that happens,” Frank added.

Brendon swayed on his feet and Spencer caught at him. Brendon’s face was deathly pale, and he looked up at Spencer clearly terrified. Spencer held on, hoping that his nearness, his solidity, helped keep Brendon calm.

“Are you ok?” Spencer asked him again. It took a moment for Brendon to respond.

“I will be. Will you be here? Outside?” Brendon wondered.

“Right here, the whole time,” Spencer replied. He was struck, suddenly, with how attached he had gotten to Brendon in such a short time. He had to stop to think about how they had met only just that morning, at Ian’s. It seemed like ages ago, when in fact they had only spent the day in the truck, driving along the highway.

Spencer released Brendon and he stood on his own, looking miserable. He glanced up at the others, who all gave enthusiastic thumbs-up, and then turned back to Mikey. Mikey pulled a lanyard out from underneath his shirt, a key dangling from the end, and unlocked the door. Brendon followed him silently inside.

All the guys crowded around Spencer as they watched Brendon and Mikey in the lab. They couldn’t hear a thing, but it was easy to see what they were doing. Mikey pushed up the sleeve of Brendon’s shirt and wiped a spot on his arm with a cotton ball. Spencer burst into hysterical giggles.

“He’s going to shoot him up with poison and he’s worried about infection?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of ridiculous,” Gerard agreed. “But he’ll be better after it’s all over, just wait.”

Mikey put on gloves and a mask, and for a brief second, Spencer was sure his heart had stopped. _A mask?_ What was he going to do to Brendon that he had to have that kind of protection? He stepped closer to the glass; his movement catching Brendon’s eye because he turned his head to look at Spencer as Mikey busied himself with vials and syringes. Mikey must have said something then because Brendon nodded and offered his arm.

When Mikey drove the syringe into Brendon’s arm, it seemed like everyone stopped breathing. They held their breaths, waiting to see what would happen. How he would react. Spencer felt disadvantaged. These guys all knew what they were going to see in that lab. Frank had lived it.

Brendon’s back arched alarmingly, his head thrown back and his eyes squeezed shut. He had been sitting on a low cushion, almost a bed, but Mikey helped ease him back to lie down. Spencer stepped closer to the glass again, his hands pressed flat to the window as he watched Brendon thrash. And then just as quickly, it stopped.

He must have made a sound because they were touching him, all three of them somehow, trying to be a comfort. Brendon lay motionless on the little cot. His eyes were open, but clearly unseeing. His thin chest seemed not to move at all, and Mikey, infuriatingly, just sat back and did nothing.

“It takes a few minutes,” Ray said in a low voice, close to Spencer’s ear. “He’ll come out of it. Mikey’s the best.”

“I know it’s hard, watching him like that,” Gerard added softly. Both of his hands gripped Spencer’s shoulders, and he wondered if Gerard let go if he would fall.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Frank said reassuringly. “He can’t feel a thing. I know it looks scary, but for him, it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I’ve killed him,” Spencer choked out.

“No,” Gerard said hastily. “You’ve saved his life.”

***

It did indeed take several minutes for Brendon to revive. There were several heart-stopping seconds where he looked blue, but Ray and Gerard assured him that it had happened that way with Frank too, and he turned out fine. It wasn’t really long enough to cause lasting damage. At least, not any worse than had already happened, or what was going to happen in the long run.

Spencer started hopping from foot to foot when Brendon began showing signs of recovery. Mikey wasn’t going to let him in, not until he had cleaned up and put away anything even remotely dangerous.

Spencer watched anxiously as Mikey tested Brendon’s reflexes. He tapped his knees and elbows, shined a light in his eyes, and looked in his mouth. Spencer could tell that they were both talking, but he had never been a lip reader and it was making him crazy. Mikey slapped Brendon heartily on the shoulder before he stood and made his way to the door alone. He left Brendon sitting on the cot.

Mikey closed the door carefully behind himself before he said anything. Spencer noticed the quick glance he cast at his brother and his friends before he settled on Spencer.

“He’s much better,” Mikey said, not beating about the bush. Spencer released a whoosh of air, feeling like he was literally deflating. “His reflexes are closer to normal, and even his voice sounds different. But he’s not out of the woods yet.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off Brendon. He looked so much better. There was color in his cheeks, his eyes were bright, and he just looked healthier.

“I gave him what we had left of the antidote, but it wasn’t enough,” Mikey replied. “When Frank was sick we ended up having to dose him three times before we were sure we got it all.”

“Three times?” Spencer said disbelievingly. “If you don’t have any more--what are we supposed to do?”

“You’re going to have to find Pete,” Frank said morosely.

“You say that like it’s going to be difficult. Wasn’t he here for a while?” Spencer asked.

“He was,” Gerard said. “But he didn’t feel like it was safe to stay.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“As safe here as anywhere, I guess,” Ray put in. “But I think Pete had his own reasons for leaving.”

“His family--” Gerard began hesitantly, looking at Mikey. “It was why he left LA so fast. Pete was originally from Chicago.”

“We managed to distract him for a little while here,” Mikey said.

“ _You_ did,” Frank muttered.

“We had to save you!” snapped Mikey, “and now Brendon. What would we have done if Pete hadn’t come?”

Frank scowled down at his feet and mumbled something so low Spencer didn’t catch it, but he figured Mikey did.

“Tell me what you know about Pete,” Spencer said, trying to get them back on track.

“We think he’s gone back to Chicago,” Mikey replied.

“You think?”

“That’s what he said,” Frank added.

“More or less,” Gerard agreed.

“Pete’s mother was taking care of his son,” Mikey said softly. Spencer felt like his blood chilled. He would have run too, if he had something like that on the other side.

“I get it,” he said suddenly. “It’s why we’re headed to Vegas. Brendon and I, we’re both from Vegas. Our families are there. They were there. I have to know...”

“Of course you do,” Gerard said soothingly. “And lucky for you, it’s on the way to Chicago.”

“Do you really think Pete went all the way back to Chicago in this?” Spencer wondered.

“If anyone could, it’s Pete,” Mikey said with a slight smile playing at his lips. “And you.”

“Well, wait, what about Brendon?” Spencer remembered hastily.

“He’ll have to go too, naturally,” replied Gerard, amused.

“Can I see him?” Spencer asked. “Is it safe, or does he have to stay in there until he’s not contagious?”

“He’s not contagious,” Mikey said. “He’s just resting. It takes a lot out of you to reboot.”

Mikey opened the glass door and let Spencer inside. Brendon remained sitting on the cot where Mikey had left him, sort of. He had made himself more comfortable while the scene had played out in the greater laboratory beyond the glass room. Spencer strode across the room and stopped where Brendon’s feet touched the tile, suddenly unsure as to what he was doing there.

“Are you ok?”

Spencer wanted to roll his eyes at himself as soon as the words came out of his mouth. It was like he kept saying the same thing over and over again, and yet he couldn’t figure out why he actually cared.

“I’m incredible, comparatively,” Brendon said, smiling wide.

“You sound different. Mikey said--”

“Yeah. This is more me,” Brendon replied. His smile grew impossibly bigger. “I want to sing; isn’t that stupid?”

“Go ahead, I guess,” Spencer shrugged.

“Nah,” Brendon shook his head. “It would just make you crazy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Spencer said. “So, um.”

“What’s up?”

“You up for a road trip?” Spencer suggested.

“Where to?” Brendon wondered.

“Chicago.”

“Are we still going to Vegas?”

“It’s on the way,” Spencer replied. “Besides, that was the deal, right? We go to Vegas... and then who knows? Now...”

“Yeah,” Brendon agreed. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Don’t you even want to know why?” Spencer asked.

Brendon shrugged. “I figured it had to be something to do with the antidote.”

“Pete’s supposed to be in Chicago,” Spencer nodded. “He’s the only one who knows how to make the antidote. Did Mikey tell you--”

“I was there, Spencer,” Brendon reminded him. “Sick, not stupid. The disease doesn’t affect mental functioning; I’m not _actually_ turning into a mindless zombie. Just looks like it.”

“Yeah. Right,” Spencer said, rubbing at his shoulder absently. “Tomorrow, then?”

“We probably shouldn’t waste any time,” Brendon agreed. “It took us four hours to make the two hour drive to Barstow. We can probably assume that it’ll take twice as long the rest of the way to Vegas too. And to Chicago, for that matter.”

“But for now, you should probably get some sleep,” Spencer suggested. Brendon nodded, his eyelids already drooping. He didn’t hesitate to just lean over and curl up into a ball. Spencer glanced around and noticed a blanket folded up underneath the cot. By the time he draped it over Brendon’s slight form Spencer could already hear him snoring softly.

Everyone was pointedly looking anywhere but in the isolation room when Spencer emerged.

“He’s asleep,” Spencer reported.

“Want to come back upstairs? We’ll get you something to eat and make sure you know all the details,” Gerard offered, leading the way.

“Sure, but--” Spencer turned back, looking at Brendon, fast asleep and unaware.

“I’ll leave a light on,” Mikey said, bringing up the rear.

***

If they made the assumption that travel would take twice as long as usual, like Brendon proposed, everyone agreed that it would take Spencer and Brendon roughly five days to reach Chicago. Mikey told Spencer that he had about ten days to find Pete and get another dose of the antidote before Brendon’s symptoms returned to their previous level of severity. The antidote was kind of like a hepatitis vaccine, one that you had to get in a series of shots in order to gain the full benefits.

It didn’t leave them a lot of time in Vegas, but Spencer figured they wouldn’t need much anyway, no matter what they found.

***

Spencer woke early, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. He was warm and comfortable and didn’t want to move. It drove him to alertness with some speed. He rarely woke up content. It was alarming. So was the fact that Buttercup the goat slept curled up pressed against his leg.

Spencer’s startled jerk jolted the little animal awake, and he bleated sleepily, butting his head on Spencer’s thigh.

“Aw.” Spencer’s head snapped up at the sound of Frank’s voice. He seemed to have been wandering down the hall, eating something out of a tin. “Want a peanut?”

“Nah,” Spencer declined, but Buttercup struggled to his feet to go beg at Frank’s. His happy crunching was loud in the quiet room.

“We need to get your tire fixed,” Frank reminded him.

“Yeah. Is there coffee?” Spencer asked blearily.

“In this place,” Frank replied, “there is always coffee. You can count on that.”

After caffeine fortification, Spencer emerged into the bright morning sunlight with Ray and Frank in tow. Ray actually helped Spencer change the tire. Frank acted as watchman.

Brendon appeared later, flanked by the brothers, with Buttercup cradled in his arms. Frank made a ridiculous noise at the sight of the goat and quickly abandoned his post to go scratch behind his ear and search his pockets for treats.

“You should keep him,” Brendon suggested, passing Buttercup over to Frank, who took him eagerly.

“I couldn’t...” Frank protested, even as Buttercup wriggled happily and took peanuts from his fingers.

“You could. You _should_ ,” Brendon argued. “Look, he loves you already. Besides, how could we repay you for all you’ve done?”

“Oh, well, then, of course,” Gerard said with a smirk.

“He couldn’t ride with us all the way to Chicago,” Spencer pointed out.

“He needs room to play,” Mikey agreed.

Frank just baby talked at the goat.

“It’s settled then,” Brendon said. “He’s yours.”

Ray helped Spencer do a quick last-minute once-over of the truck, giving quick directions to a nearby car dealer where he was sure Spencer could snag a new spare. Goodbyes were quick and heartfelt, sending Brendon scuttling into the passenger seat with dangerously sparkling eyes. Spencer rolled down his window to catch all the last things they had to say as the truck pulled away.

“Don’t forget what I told you about Pete,” Mikey called.

“I won’t,” Spencer said confidently.

Frank made Buttercup wave a hoof jauntily while Ray laughed and shook his head.

“ _Have fun storming the castle!_ ” shouted Gerard merrily, and they all four waved vigorously until Spencer and Brendon couldn’t see them any more.

***

Spencer drove all morning across the Mojave Desert. Brendon seemed to sigh every time they passed a joshua tree, but fell quiet the closer they drew to Las Vegas. Then he started to plan.

“Your mom’s place or mine first? Who’s closer to the highway?”

“I don’t think it makes a difference, but I think yours maybe?” Spencer suggested.

They found themselves inside the Vegas city limits by noon. It wasn’t ideal. Midday in Southern Nevada was rather warm on most days, oppressively hot on all the rest. It did nothing for Spencer’s mood. The deserted city in place of the glitter and hustle they remembered didn’t help either. Spencer was stonily silent, while Brendon was downright shellshocked.

The closer they got to Brendon’s old neighborhood, the more Spencer worried. He could see the white-knuckled death grip Brendon held on to the arm rests. Brendon grew pale, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his face despite the air conditioning. His eyes darted from side to side, desperate for signs of life. A sign of anything.

There was nothing to see.

Spencer knew the neighborhood well enough to navigate in on his own, but Brendon pointed wordlessly as needed until he finally croaked out, “stop.”

It was as Spencer feared. There was nothing, not even zombies disturbed the quiet as Brendon made his way to the front door of a dark house. Inside, Spencer took the lead. It wouldn’t do to let Brendon find something horrible. Spencer suspected he had nightmares enough.

"Mom? Dad?" Brendon called softly.

Spencer stopped and waited for a sound.

"I don't hear anything, Brendon," he said finally.

“We have to look. They might be hiding.”

“Of course.”

They moved silently through the first and second floors. Spencer even pulled down the ladder to the attic and stuck his head up there before Brendon led him to the basement. Spencer’s heart was in his throat the entire time, but they found nothing. Not only were there no zombies roaming the streets, but there weren’t even any signs of human life, past or present, except for all the things they left behind.

It was like everyone simply evaporated.

Brendon sank down to sit on the floor in the living room when they finished their search. Spencer followed closely, concerned. Brendon looked ready to break. His eyes were glazed and distant, and he moved as if he was on autopilot, without any thought at all.

Spencer sat down beside him.“So this is where you grew up?” It took a moment for him to respond but eventually Brendon nodded his head. “Tell me about them?”

It was a shot in the dark, but Spencer needed Brendon to be present, not lost in his own head. Slowly, Brendon started talking. He spoke of his numerous siblings, brothers and sisters both. They were all older, all married with families. Lots of little kids in the house.

"My father loved music like I do. He taught me my first songs on guitar," Brendon said softly. "Wasn't she beautiful, my mother? Everyone always said she looked too young to have adult children, let alone grandchildren. I look like her," he said gazing up at her image on the wall. "I hoped it meant I’d stay young and sweet like she had."

Tears coursed down Brendon’s face as he spoke. At first, Spencer looked away, finding pictures of everyone he mentioned and giving faces to the names. Soon though, Spencer had to give in and offer what comfort he could. Spencer inched closer and slipped an arm around Brendon’s shaking shoulders. Brendon leaned into him and Spencer could practically feel him breaking apart. Spencer just held on and let him cry.

It was a long time before Brendon was in any condition to discuss their plans.

“Did you want to stay here for a little while?” Spencer asked.

“Not really,” Brendon said miserably. He extricated himself from Spencer’s grasp and stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. “I want a picture of them,” he said, inspecting the family portraits displayed around the room, finally choosing one with the most people in it. Brendon’s hands were shaking as he took the picture from its frame, gently tracing each face in turn before he folded it and put it in his back pocket.

It wasn’t far from Brendon’s parents’ house to Spencer’s mother’s. It was funny how they had grown up so close but never knew each other; only to meet years later and hundreds of miles away.

The situation didn’t change as they moved. Las Vegas was dead. Spencer didn’t anticipate that they would be any more successful in this second search. That he was prepared to be disappointed didn’t make it hurt any less.

Spencer’s mother’s house was on a sunny cul-de-sac. Spencer pulled the truck right up into the driveway, something he never would have done in LA. The sound would have brought zombies in for blocks around. They didn’t seem to have that problem in Vegas.

He sat there staring at the house after he turned off the ignition.

“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want,” Brendon said softly.

“I do,” Spencer replied, unbuckling his seat belt. “It’s why I came. I have to know for sure.”

The door was locked. A thrill coursed through Spencer’s body, and he turned to look at Brendon with something that felt a lot like hope.

“Do you have a key?” Brendon asked.

“No, but...” he cast around the entrance, looking for a likely spot. He looked under the mat, in flower pots and the mailbox, and finally found a fake rock tucked in amongst the landscaping. A key was inside.

“How did she never get robbed?” Brendon wondered.

“I have no idea.”

The door opened easily, revealing an empty house. It was much the same as at Brendon’s. Spencer couldn’t tell from what was left what had happened to his mother and sisters. There were no bodies, no signs of a struggle, no blood on the floor. It was like they disappeared.

Spencer needed some time to deal with it. He sat on the bottom step of the flight of stairs that led to the bedrooms above. Brendon watched him anxiously, the signs of grief etched upon his face. Spencer knew that he looked much the same way.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Brendon asked. Spencer was struck with a sense of deja vu. “We don’t have to, but it’s a good place. And I don’t know if you should really be driving right now.”

“Whatever.”

Brendon sat down next to him, offering Spencer the comfort of his presence since there was nothing else. Spencer hid his face in his hands. He didn’t cry--he was kind of beyond that--but he wanted to curl up into a ball. Brendon swept a hand down his back and up again, over and over. It was soothing, and Spencer found himself relaxing into it.

“Before we left, Ian told me we were a team, you and I,” Brendon said. “We have to take care of each other, watch our backs because no one else would. Because there is no one else. I thought he was exaggerating. There were plenty of people in LA.

“Then this morning, while you were out fixing the truck, Gerard and Mikey kind of expanded on the idea. Going to Chicago to find Pete is like a quest, right? There’s... nothing left for us. We need to find a reason. We need to find something to live for.”

_Something to live for._ It made sense. He had left Los Angeles in order to determine the fate of his loved ones. Brendon had wanted the same thing. Now that they had made it to Vegas, they had answers, of a sort, even if they were unsatisfying. Now, all they had left was each other.

Spencer raised his head and looked at Brendon, whose hand stilled at the small of his back. They sat on the step and just stared at each other, practically nose to nose. Spencer came to the realization slowly.

“It’s you,” he whispered. "I have to save you. For humanity," he dropped his gaze and took a shaky breath. "And for me." And he leaned the slightest bit to press his lips to Brendon’s.

Brendon gasped, his parted lips damp and red and tempting. Spencer had a second of complete terror, convinced that he had ruined everything, but Brendon just leaned in again and kissed him back.

Spencer’s whole body tingled and he was hyper-aware of all the places they were touching. He found his hands suddenly touching Brendon’s skin, cupping his face and stroking his cheek with a thumb. Brendon moaned softly and the kiss intensified. Brendon gripped Spencer’s shoulders, dragging him closer until it threw them off balance and Spencer slid off the step onto the floor.

They looked at each other in shocked silence, panting as if they had run a marathon. Spencer moved first, climbing to his feet and hauling Brendon up after him up the stairs. He went to his old room; his mother had converted it into a guest bedroom, mostly by removing any traces of his childhood detritus and changing the curtains. Spencer didn’t care, really, as long as it had a bed.

Brendon kicked the door closed behind them and dragged Spencer down by his hair for another kiss. They tugged at each other’s clothes, frantically searching for skin, and breaking apart only long enough to yank shirts over their heads. Spencer led Brendon across the room and urged him down onto the bed. Brendon went easily, pulling Spencer along so that he ended up stretched along the length of Brendon’s lean body, nestled between his legs.

Brendon craned his neck, reaching for Spencer’s mouth, his body arching beneath him. Spencer rolled his hips experimentally, his erection dragging along Brendon’s hip and effectively trapping Brendon’s between them.

Brendon whimpered against Spencer’s mouth.

“ _Spencer._ I want, I want—“

Spencer mouthed along his jaw and down his neck, stopping to bite down on Brendon’s collar bone until he shouted and scrabbled at Spencer’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the skin. Spencer shifted, drawing a hand down Brendon’s body to grasp his cock firmly. Brendon threw his head back and moaned throatily as Spencer proceeded to jerk him off.

Brendon was hot and flushed and his skin was silky smooth under Spencer’s hands. He was incredibly responsive, writhing and babbling as Spencer touched him. It emboldened Spencer, and he pressed his body along Brendon’s and poured a stream of praise and dirty talk alike into his ear.

Brendon’s cock jerked in Spencer’s hand and he came with a shout. He twisted and squirmed until he could reach Spencer, swiping his hand through the come on his belly before curling his dripping fingers along Spencer’s length. Spencer gasped in his ear, and he could feel the curve of Brendon's lips as he smiled.

" _Yes,_ " he hissed. "Just like that."

"Like that?" Brendon asked, adding a twist to his wrist that made Spencer's toes curl and his eyes threaten to roll back in his head.

"Just like that," Spencer agreed heartily.

"Not, say, _that?_ " Brendon teased, flicking his thumb across the leaking head of Spencer's cock and then pressing _just right_ underneath it.

Spencer stiffened and came with his mouth pressed into Brendon's shoulder to muffle the whimper that escaped. It mostly worked. Brendon's smile was sleepy sated and fond, so Spencer didn't feel the need to be too horrified about his embarrassing sex noises.

They did a cursory clean-up, merely wiping off with a corner of the bedspread and calling it good. Brendon was lazy, and content to curl up where they were for the rest of the night, even if it was kind if early. They were sure to want to get up to get something to eat later, but Spencer was fine too, just lying in bed with Brendon and not worrying about anything.

***

Spencer woke for the second morning in a row warm and comfortable. Brendon was wrapped around him, sprawled over more than half the bed, and generally taking up far more space than Spencer thought possible. He was hot, even having kicked off most of the sheets, and Spencer found himself testing Brendon’s forehead.

“I run hot,” he said blearily. “Usually.”

“I didn’t notice, uh, before.”

“Yeah, well,” Brendon said, scrubbing at his eyes. “It was part of the deterioration, I guess. I felt cold.”

Brendon shuddered and snuggled up closer. Spencer wrapped him in his arms and pulled him in even tighter. Brendon tucked his nose up under Spencer’s jaw and sighed.

“You’re not cold anymore,” Spencer pointed out unnecessarily.

“I’m not mostly dead anymore either,” Brendon said with a throaty chuckle.

“ _That_ I did notice,” Spencer smirked.

Brendon pushed up onto his elbow, leering.

“A little less like necrophilia then, thinking dirty things about me.”

Spencer sputtered.

“I didn’t--”

“I saw you looking, back at Ian’s. Could see it in your eyes, what you were thinking once I got cleaned up. Or were you, even before--”

“ _No!_ ” Spencer protested. “Brendon, you were--”

“Mostly dead,” Brendon’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “That do it for you? Should I take a cold bath, then lie very still?” Spencer swatted at him. “Close my eyes and hold my breath, so you can--”

“ _Brendon!_ ”

He laughed.

“No necrophilia then?”

“Not so much, no,” Spencer replied, shaking his head.

“So the zombie apocalypse isn’t your dirtiest fantasy come to life?” Brendon teased, leaning down and breathing hot in Spencer’s ear.

“Well, I didn’t say that,” Spencer murmured, stretching his neck to give Brendon better access. “But it has very little to do with the zombies.”

***

It continued to be slow going through Nevada, the little of that they actually had to go through, as well as into Utah. It seemed that initial survivorship had been high out here in the west, so there were a lot more cars randomly abandoned on the roads that Spencer had to drive around, much like it had been in LA.

He noticed, though, that the higher they got in elevation, the more it thinned. Their goal for that first day of driving was Grand Junction, a city that it usually would have taken Spencer about seven hours to reach. Six, really, if he was being honest.

It took them closer to ten.

It was cooler in Grand Junction when they finally stopped for the night. It wasn’t hard to find someplace cooler than Las Vegas, generally, but Spencer took it as a sign that they were indeed getting closer to passing over the mountains. Grand Junction was on the upslope; there was still a long way to go.

They decided to try to stay in a motel. It was easy for them to find a crappy little place off the highway that still used actual keys. The office was open, and Spencer chose two keys hanging on a plaque behind the check-in desk; a backup, just in case.

There hadn’t been a lot of zombie activity in Colorado, but unlike Vegas, they did see some. Brendon would catch movement out of the corner of his eye as he looked out across the landscape. If Spencer slowed down to a crawl, or even stopped the truck, they were pretty good about picking out the zombies shambling along the streets. They didn’t feel the need to destroy them, not when they weren’t going to stay. It would be a waste of their time and energy, and most importantly, their supplies.

Brendon raided the motel for food. He didn’t really find anything good, snacks and the like, but it would hold them over for another day without breaking into the better stuff that Spencer had in the truck. They sat on the over-firm mattress in their chosen room--the second one, so they knew that they had the first one they looked into if they decided they needed to move for any reason. Brendon didn’t ask what reason would force them to move to a different room, and Spencer didn’t offer any.

Soon, Spencer found himself wanting, as Brendon sucked the cheese dust off his fingers. It was profoundly unsexy, but Brendon smiled lasciviously as he passed from finger to finger, and finally pushed Spencer back onto the pillows to attack his mouth with biting kisses. It was frantic. Their fingers scrabbled against skin, pushing away clothes; sure to leave bruises they would see in the morning.

Spencer ended up flat on his back with Brendon wrestling with the fastening on his pants. He laughed as Brendon fumbled and struggled, finally dragging Spencer's pants down and off. Spencer helpfully freed his feet and narrowly missed kneeing Brendon in the face. Brendon just chucked the fabric over his shoulder and leaned in to peel off Spencer's boxers with both hands. He sucked down Spencer's cock as it sprang free, pressing two fingers into his hips as he bobbed his head, taking him deeper and deeper in long, smooth strokes.

Spencer rested his hands on Brendon's shoulders, not pushing, just being there. Brendon hummed, and his eyes slipped closed. Spencer swept a thumb over his cheek, feeling the angle of the strong bones just under the skin. Brendon leaned into his touch and hummed again, until Spencer pushed up and tangled his fingers in his hair. Brendon let out a strangled moan, forcing himself further down on Spencer's cock. Spencer could feel the tickle of the back of his throat and used Brendon's hair to pull him back the slightest bit.

"Do you want me to come down your throat?" Spencer asked with a warning tone.

Brendon pulled off with an obscene slurp and looked up at Spencer with heat in his wide dark eyes. "Yes," he said simply.

Spencer's hips bucked involuntarily and Brendon smirked before sucking him down again and setting a torturous pace. Spencer laughed breathlessly and tugged at Brendon's hair in time to his rhythm. Brendon relaxed under his hands, his mouth still working Spencer ardently. Spencer bucked again when his orgasm crashed through him, murmuring apologies even as Brendon wiped come off his chin.

Brendon crawled up Spencer's body, licking his lips before diving in and kissing him soundly. Spencer could taste himself on Brendon's tongue, and he chased the bitterness until it was gone. Brendon ground down on Spencer's thigh, his kisses growing desperate. Spencer grasped him by the hips and eased him off to the side so he could tug down his pants and return the favor.

Spencer stroked him fast and tight. Brendon gasped when Spencer stopped to lick his palm, then continued wet, Brendon's cock slipping easily through his fist. Brendon bucked and writhed, trying vainly to fuck Spencer's hand, but Spencer controlled it, changing the pace, or the angle, or the tightness of his grip so Brendon couldn't work himself to completion until Spencer let him.

"Spencer, please!" Brendon whined, pressing biting kisses at Spencer's mouth. Spencer just smiled as he watched Brendon's length slip and slide through his fist.

"Do you want me to suck you off?" Spencer asked, but before he could move, Brendon cried out and came across his fingers. Spencer laughed, squeezing Brendon's cock once more and raising his hand to his mouth, sucking off the come as Brendon groaned. "Maybe next time."

"Yeah," Brendon gasped. "Definitely."

"It's a plan," Spencer agreed.

[CONTINUE ON TO PART 3](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/20366.html)


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